I 


H 


II 


UNIVERSITY  OF 
AT    LOS 


THE  MELODY  OF  EARTH 


>*r 


THE  MELODY  OF 
EARTH 

AN  ANTHOLOGY 

OF  GARDEN  AND  NATURE  POEMS 

FROM  PRESENT-DAY  POETS 


SELECTED 

AND    ARRANGED   BY 

MRS.  WALDO    RICHARDS 


$x/JLaAx$d& 


+no<*> 


BOSTON   AND   NEW   YORK 

HOUGHTON    MIFFLIN   COMPANY 

1918 

1 


COPYRIGHT,    I91S,    BY    GERTRUDE    MOORE   RICHARDS 
ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 

Published  March  iqiS 


1   1  « 


P. 


TO 

MY  DEAK  SISTER 

A  LOVER  OF  GARDENS 


FOREWORD 

How  many  of  us  are  conscious  of  the  subtle  melodies,  "  through 
which  the  myriad  lispings  of  the  earth  find  perfect  speech"? 

Our  poets  are  listeners ;  their  ears  are  tuned  to  the  magic  call 
of  secret  voices  that  we  who  are  not  singers  may  never  hear. 
They  capture  the  "Melody"  in  chalices  of  song,  and  their  mes- 
sage is:  that  whosoever  will  bend  his  ear  to  earth,  may  hear 
from  field  and  furrow,  from  the  many-bladed  grass  and  the  soft- 
petalled  flowers  —  in  the  soughing  of  the  pine  tree  or  the  rustle 
of  leaves  —  an  immortal  music  that  revivifies  the  soul. 

In  the  quiet  tilled  spots  of  earth,  from  time  immemorial,  men 
have  sown  rare  seeds  of  poetic  thought  that  have  flowered  into 
song.  Amiel  wrote  in  his  Journal:  "All  seed-sowing  is  a 
mysterious  thing  whether  the  seed  fall  into  earth  or  into  souls; 
man  is  a  husbandman,  and  his  work  rightly  understood  is  to 
develop  life,  to  sow  it  everywhere."  The  poets  are  our  seed- 
sowers,  and  their  work  is  to  develop  life  and  to  enrich  it.  They  are 
never  happier  than  when  writing  about  gardens  and  the  growing 
things  of  earth  —  at  once  their  symbol  and  their  solace.  In  turn 
gardens  have  in  the  poets  their  happiest  interpreters. 

Here  I  have  culled  and  gathered  together  songs  and  poems  that 
reflect  the  melody  and  harmony  of  Nature's  forces.  In  these 
days  of  the  world's  travail,  let  us  seek  inspiration  and  content 
within  the  delightful  confines  of  these  Gardens  of  Poetry. 

Gertrude  Moore  Richards 

March,  1918 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Mrs.  Richards  tenders  her  sincere  thanks  to  the  publishers  and 
poets  who  have  so  generously  accorded  their  permission  to  use  copy- 
righted poems: 

To  the  American  Tract  Society  for  "Seeds"  and  "The  Philosopher's 
Garden,"  John  Oxenham,  from  Bees  in  Amber. 

To  Messrs.  D.  Appleton  &  Co.  for  "The  Mocking-Bird,"  Frank  L. 
Stanton,  from  Songs  of  the  Soil. 

To  the  Baker  &  Taylor  Co.  for  "June  Rapture"  and  "The  Rose," 
Angela  Morgan,  from  The  Hour  has  Struck,  and  Other  Poems  and 
Utterance,  and  Other  Poems. 

To  The  Biddle  Press  for  "The  Old-fashioned  Garden"  and  "  Pop- 
pies," John  Russell  Hayes,  from  Collected  Poems. 

To  the  Bobbs-Merrill  Company  for  "Thoughts  fer  the  Discuraged 
Farmer,"  James  Whitcomb  Riley,  from  Complete  Works. 

To  Edmund  A.  Brooks,  Minneapolis,  for  "Daffodils"  and  "From 
a  Car-Window,"  Ruth  Guthrie  Harding,  from  The  Lark  went  Singing, 
and  Other  Poems. 

To  Messrs.  Burns  &  Oates  and  to  Alice  Meynell  (Mrs.  Wilfrid 
Meynell)  for  "  To  a  Daisy"  and  "The  Garden"  from  Collected  Poems; 
for  "Rosa  Mystica,"  Katharine  Tynan  (Mrs.  Henry  Albert  Hink- 
son),  from  The  Flower  of  Peace. 

To  The  Century  Co.  for  "Larkspur,"  James  Oppenheim,  from 
War  and  Laughter;  for  "The  Tilling,"  Cale  Young  Rice,  from  Trails 
Sunward;  for  "The  Haunted  Garden,"  Louis  Untermeyer,  from 
Challenge. 

To  Messrs.  Constable  &  Co.  for  "For  These,"  Edward  Thomas 
(Edward  Eastaway),  from  An  Annual  of  New  Poetry. 

To  Country  Life  (London)  and  to  Mrs.  Gurney  personally  for  "The 

ix 


Lord   God   planted  a  Garden"  and   "A  Garden   in    Venice,"   by 
Dorothy  Frances  Gurney,  from  Poems. 

To  Messrs.  Thomas  Y.  Crowcll  Company  for  "Love  planted  a 
Rose,"  Katharine  Lee  Bates,  from  America,  and  Other  Poems;  for 
"An  Exile's  Garden,"  Sophie  Jewett,  from  Collected  Poems. 

To  Messrs.  J.  M.  Dent  &  Sons  for  "The  Spring  Beauties,"  Helen 
Gray  Cone,  from  The  Chant  of  Love,  and  Other  Poems. 

To  Messrs.  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.  for  "In  a  Garden,"  Livingston  L. 
Biddle,  from  The  Understanding  Hills. 

To  Messrs.  George  H.  Doran  Company  for  "The  Cricket  in  the 
Path,"  "Herb  of  Grace,"  and  "Rain  in  the  Night,"  Amelia  Josephine 
Burr,  from  In  Deep  Places  and  Life  and  Living;  for  "A  Song  in  a 
Garden,"  "Shade,"  and  "The  Poplars,"  Theodosia  Garrison,  from 
The  Dreamers,  and  Other  Poems;  for  "Trees,"  Joyce  Kilmer,  from 
Trees,  and  Other  Poems;  for  "June,"  Douglas  Malloch,  from  The 
Woods;  for  "Where  Love  is  Life,"  Duncan  Campbell  Scott,  from 
"The  Three  Songs"  in  Lundy's  Lane,  and  Other  Poems. 

To  Messrs.  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.  for  "A  Prayer,"  "The  Butter- 
fly," and  "Before  Mary  of  Magdala  came,"  Edwin  Markham,  from 
The  Man  with  the  Hoe,  and  Other  Poems  and  The  Shoes  of  Happiness, 
and  Other  Poems. 

To  Messrs.  Duffield  &  Co.  for  "The  sweet  caresses  that  I  gave  to 
you,"  Elsa  Barker,  from  The  Book  of  Love;  for  "What  heart  but 
fears  a  fragrance?"  ("Zauber  Duft"),  Martha  Gilbert  Dickinson 
Bianchi,  from  Gabrielle,  and  Other  Poems;  for  "Spring,"  Francis 
Ledwidge,  from  Songs  of  the  Fields;  for  "The  White  Peacock,"  Wil- 
liam Sharp,  from  Songs  and  Poems. 

To  Messrs.  E.  P.  Dutton  &  Co.  for  "The  South  Wind,"  Siegfried 
Sassoon,  from  The  Old  Huntsman,  and  Other  Poems;  for  "The  Tree," 
Evelyn  Under  hill,  from  Theophanies. 

To  Messrs.  H.  W.  Fisher  &  Co.  for  "A  Dream,"  "The  Autumn 
Rose,"  "Fireflies,"  and  "An  Evening  in  Old  Japan,"  Antoinette  De 
Coursey  Patterson,  from  Sonnets  and  Quatrains  and  The  Son  of 
Metope,  and  Other  Poems. 


To  Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers  for  "Roses  in  the  Subway,"  Dana 
Burnet,  from  Poems;  for  "The  Wild  Rose,"  and  "If  I  were  a  Fairy," 
Charles  Buxton  Going,  from  Star-Glow  and  Song;  for  "The  Cardinal- 
Bird,"  Arthur  Guiterman,  from  The  Laughing  Muse;  for  "Wild  Gar- 
dens," Ada  Foster  Murray,  from  Flowers  of  the  Grass;  for  "  The  Mes- 
sage," Helen  Hay  Whitney,  from  Sonnets  and  Songs. 

To  Hearst's  International  Library  Company  for  "Stairways  and 
Gardens"  and  "My  Flower-Room,"  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox,  from 
World  Voices. 

To  Mr.  William  Heinemann  for  "The  Cactus,"  Laurence  Hope, 
from  Stars  of  the  Desert;  for  "The  July  Garden,"  R.  E.  Vernede, 
from  War  Poems,  and  Other  Verses;  for  "A  Garden-Piece,"  Edmund 
Gosse,  from  Collected  Poems. 

To  Messrs.  Henry  Holt  &  Co.  for  "The  Cloister  Garden  at  Cer- 
tosa,"  Richard  Burton,  from  Poems  of  Earth's  Meaning ;  for  "The  Fur- 
row," Padraic  Colum,  from  Wild  Earth,  and  Other  Poems;  for  "The 
Three  Cherry  Trees,"  Walter  de  la  Mare,  from  The  Listeners,  and 
Other  Poems;  for  "A  Late  Walk,"  "Asking  for  Roses,"  "The  Pas- 
ture," and  "Putting  in  the  Seed,"  Robert  Frost,  from  A  Boy's  Will, 
North  of  Boston,  and  A  Mountain  Interval;  for  "Joe-Pyeweed,"  Louis 
Untermeyer,  from  These  Times. 

To  Messrs.  Houghton  Mifflin  Company  for  "The  Blooming  of  the 
Rose  "  and  the  selection  from  "Under  the  Trees,"  Anna  Hempstead 
Branch,  from  The  Heart  of  the  Road  and  The  Shoes  that  Danced,  and 
Other  Poems;  for  "Spring  Patchwork"  and  "The  Flowerphone," 
Abbie  Farwell  Brown,  from  A  Pocketful  of  Posies  and  Songs  of  Six- 
pence; for  "The  Morning-Glory  "  and  "Jewel-Weed,"  Florence  Earle 
Coates,  from  Collected  Poems;  for  "Nightingales"  and  "A  Breath  of 
Mint,"  Grace  Hazard  Conkling,  from  Afternoons  of  April;  for  "The 
Golden-Rod,"  Margaret  Deland,  from  The  Old  Garden,  and  Other 
Verses;  for  "A  Roman  Garden,"  Florence  Wilkinson  Evans,  from 
The  Ride  Home;  for  "Cobwebs,"  Louise  Imogen  Guiney,  from  Happy 
Ending;  for  "Planting,"  Robert  Livingston,  from  Muvver  and  Me;  for 
"Primavera,"  George  Cabot  Lodge,  from  Poems  and  Dramas;  for 

xi 


"Ever  the  Same,"  "Charm:  To  be  said  in  the  Sun,"  and  "But  we  did 
walk  in  Eden,"  Josephine  Preston  Peabody,  from  The  Singing  Leaves 
and  The  Singing  Man;  for  "At  Isola  Bella"  ("A  White  Peacock"), 
Jessie  B.  Rittenhouse,  from  The  Door  of  Dreams;  for  "The  Gold- 
finch," Odell  Shepard,  from  A  Lonely  Flute;  for  "Daisies"  and 
"Witchery,"  Frank  Dempster  Sherman,  from  Poems;  for  "Grand- 
mother's Gathering  Boneset,"  Edith  M.  Thomas,  from  In  Sunshine 
Land. 

To  Mr.  B.  W.  Huebsch  for  "Song  from  'April/  "  Irene  Rutherford 
McLeod,  from  Songs  to  Save  a  Soul. 

To  Messrs.  George  W.  Jacobs  &  Co.  for  "Vestured  and  veiled  with 
twilight,"  Rosamund  Marriott  Watson,  from  The  Heart  of  a  Garden. 

To  Mr.  R.  U.  Johnson  (publisher)  for  "Como  in  April,"  Robert 
Underwood  Johnson,  from  Collected  Poems. 

To  Mr.  Mitchell  Kennerley  for  "A  Song  to  Belinda,"  Theodosia 
Garrison,  from  Earth  Cry;  for  "In  a  Garden,"  Horace  Holley,  from 
Divinations  and  Creations;  for  "Afternoon  on  a  Hill,"  "The  End  of 
Summer,"  and  "A  Little  Ghost,"  Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay,  from 
Renascence,  and  Other  Poems;  for  "Welcome,"  John  Curtis  Under- 
wood, from  Processionals;  for  "Mre  Perennius,"  Charles  Hanson 
Towne,  from  A  Quiet  Singer. 

To  Mr.  Alfred  A.  Knopf  for  "The  Rain"  and  "The  Ways  of 
Time,"  William  H.  Davies,  from  Collected  Poems. 

To  The  John  Lane  Company  (New  York)  for  "  Loveliest  of  Trees," 
A.  E.  Housman,  from  A  Shropshire  Lad;  for  "May  is  building  her 
House,"  and  "  I  meant  to  do  my  work  to-day,"  Richard  Le  Gallienne, 
from  The  Lonely  Dancer;  for  "The  Joy  of  the  Springtime,"  and  "The 
Time  of  Roses,"  Sarojini  Naidu,  from  The  Bird  of  Time  and  The 
Broken  Wing;  for  "Heart's  Garden,"  Norreys  Jephson  O'Conor, 
from  Celtic  Memories;  for  "Serenade,"  Marjorie  L.  C.  Pickthall,  from 
The  Lamp  of  Poor  Souls;  for  "There  is  Strength  in  the  Soil,"  Arthur 
Stringer,  from  Open  Water;  for  "Midsummer  blooms  within  our  quiet 
garden  ways,"  "It  was  June  in  the  garden,"  and  "Within  the  garden 
there  is  healthfulness,"  Emile  Verhaeren,  from  The  Sunlit  Hours  and 

xii 


Afternoon;  for  "In  a  Garden  of  Granada,"  Thomas  Walsh,  from 
Gardens  Overseas;  for  "The  Garden  of  Mnemosyne,"  Rosamund 
Marriott  Watson,  from  Collected  Poems;  for  "Eden-Hunger,"  Wil- 
liam Watson,  from  Retrogression,  and  Other  Poems;  for  "Spring  Plant- 
ing," Helen  Hay  Whitney,  from  Herbs  and  Apples. 

To  Messrs.  Little,  Brown  &  Co.  for  "To  a  Weed,"  Gertrude  Hall, 
from  The  Age  of  Fairy  Gold ;  for  "The  Green  o'  the  Spring,"  Denis  A. 
McCarthy,  from  Voices  from  Erin;  for  "The  Baby's  Valentine," 
Laura  E.  Richards,  from  In  my  Nursery. 

To  Messrs.  Lothrop,  Lee  &  Shepard  Company  for  "God's  Garden," 
Richard  Burton,  from  Dumb  in  June. 

To  Mr.  David  McKay  for  "The  Blossomy  Barrow"  and  "Da 
Thief,"  Thomas  Augustine  Daly,  from  Madrigali;  for  "A  Soft  Day," 
W.  M.  Letts,  from  Songs  from  Leinster. 

To  The  Macmillan  Company  for  "Old  Homes,"  Madison^Cawein, 
from  Poems;  for  "Up  a  Hill  and  a  Hill,"  Fannie  Stearns  Davis,  from 
Myself  and  I;  for  "In  the  Womb,"  A.  E.  (George  William  Russell), 
from  Collected  Poems;  for  "To  the  Sweetwilliam,"  Norman  Gale, 
from  Collected  Poems;  for  "Roses,"  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson,  from  Battle, 
and  Other  Poems;  for  "Rest  at  Noon"  and  "The  Hummingbird," 
Hermann  Hagedorn,  from  Poems  and  Ballads;  for  "  The  Mystery," 
Ralph  Hodgson,  from  Poems;  for  "The  Dandelion"  and  "With  a 
Rose,  to  Brunhilde,"  Vachel  Lindsay,  from  General  William  Booth 
enters  into  Heaven,  and  Other  Poems  and  A  Handy  Guide  for  Beggars; 
for  "A  Tulip  Garden,"  "Fringed  Gentians,"  and  "The  Fruit  Garden 
Path,"  Amy  Lowell,  from  Sword  Blades  and  Poppy  Seed  and  The 
Dome  of  Many-coloured  Glass ;  for  "It  may  be  so:  but  let  the  unknown 
be"  and  "  Drop  me  the  Seed,"  John  Masefield,  from  Lollingdon  Downs, 
and  Other  Poems;  for  "Samuel  Gardner,"  Edgar  Lee  Masters,  from 
The  Spoon  River  Anthology;  for  "Go  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time"  (se- 
lection from  "The  Barrel-Organ"),  Alfred  Noyes,  from  Poems; 
for  "The  Messenger,"  James  Stephens,  horn  Songs  from  the  Clay;  for 
"The  Champa  Flower"  and  "The  Flower-School,"  Rabindranath 
Tagore,  from  The  Crescent  Moon;  for  "Indian  Summer,"  "Alchemy," 


Mil 


"The  Fountain,"  "Barter,"  and  "Wood  Song,"  Sara  Teasdale,  from 
Rivers  to  the  Sea  and  Love  Songs;  for  "The  Message,"  George  Edward 
Woodberry,  from  Poems;  for  "The  Song  of  Wandering |  Aengus," 
W.  B.  Yeats,  from  Poems. 

To  Mr.  Elkin  Mathews  and  to  Mr.  Rowland  Thirlmere  personally 
for  "A  Shower,"  from  Polyclitus,  and  Other  Poems. 

To  the  Manas  Press,  Rochester,  N.Y.,  for  "November  Night"  and 
"Arbutus,"  Adelaide  Crapsey,  from  Verses. 

To  Messrs.  John  P.  Morton  &  Co.,  Louisville,  Ky.,  for  "Con- 
science," Margaret  Steele  Anderson,  from  The  Flame  in  the  Wind. 

To  Mr.  Thomas  Bird  Mosher  for  "Beyond,"  "As  in  a  Rose-Jar," 
and  "  My  soul  is  like  a  garden-close,"  Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr.,  from  The 
Voice  in  the  Silence  and  The  Rose-Jar;  for  "A  Seller  of  Herbs,"  "The 
Garden  at  Bemerton,"  and  "April  Weather,"  Lizette  Woodworth 
Reese,  from  A  Handful  of  Lavender;  for  "Frost  To-night,"  Edith  M. 
Thomas,  from  The  Flower  from  the  Ashes;  for  "In  an  Oxford  Garden" 
and  "Old  Gardens,"  Arthur  Upson,  from  Octaves  in  an  Oxford  Garden 
and  Collected  Poems. 

To  Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons  for  "In  an  Old  Garden,"  Madison 
Cawein,  from  Moods  and  Melodies;  for  "  If  I  could  dig  like  a  Rabbit," 
Rose  Strong  Hubbell,  from  //  J  could  Fly;  for  "The  Anxious  Farmer," 
Burges  Johnson,  from  Rhymes  of  Home;  for  "In  an  August  Garden," 
"Amiel's  Garden,"  and  "The  Garden,"  Gertrude  Huntington 
McGiffert,  from  A  Florentine  Cycle. 

To  The  Reilly  &  Britton  Co.  for  "Results  and  Roses,"  Edgar  A. 
Guest,  from  Heap  o'  Livin'. 

To  Mr.  Grant  Richards  for  "Loveliest  of  Trees,"  A.  E.  Hous- 
man,  from  A  Shropshire  Lad. 

To  Mr.  A.  M.  Robertson  (San  Francisco)  for  "How  many  flowers 
are  gently  met,"  George  Sterling,  from  The  Testimony  of  the  Sun, 
and  Other  Poems. 

To  Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  "Miracle,"  L.  H.  Bailey, 
from  Wind  and  Weather;  for  "Four  O'Clocks"  and  "Homesick" 
Julia  C.  R.  Dorr,  from  Poems  and  Last  Poems;  for  "Tell-Tale,"  Oliver 

xiv 


Herford,  from  Overheard  in  a  Garden;  for  "In  the  Garden"  and  "The 
Deserted  Garden,"  Pai  Ta-Shun  (Frederick  Peterson),  from  Chinese 
Lyrics  (Kelly  &  Walsh,  Hongkong);  for  "The  Child  in  the  Garden," 
Henry  van  Dyke,  from  Collected  Poems. 

To  Messrs.  Sherman,  French  &  Co.  for  "The  Trees,"  Samuel  Val- 
entine Cole,  from  The  Great  Gray  King,  and  Other  Poems;  for  "Her 
Garden,"  Eldredge  Denison,  from  Ballads  and  Lyrics;  for  "Moth- 
Flowers,"  Jeanne  Robert  Foster,  from  Wild  Apples;  for  "The  Little 
God,"  Katharine  Howard,  from  The  Little  God,  and  Other  Poems;  for 
"Cloud  and  Flower,"  Agnes  Lee,  from  The  Sharing,  and  Other  Poems; 
for  "The  Dials"  and  "The  Secret,"  Arthur  Wallace  Peach,  from  The 
Hill  Trails;  for  "A  Garden  Prayer"  and  "In  Memory's  Garden," 
Thomas  Walsh,  from  The  Prison  Ships,  and  Other  Poems;  for  "Prayer  " 
and  "With  memories  and  odors,"  John  Hall  Wheelock,  from  Love 
and  Liberation. 

To  Messrs.  Sidgwick  &  Jackson  for  "A  Song  of  Fairies,"  by  Eliza- 
beth Kir  by,  from  The  Bridegroom. 

To  Messrs.  Small,  Maynard  &  Co.  for  "Trees,"  "The  Garden  of 
Dreams,"  and  "An  April  Morning,"  Bliss  Carman,  from  April  Airs;  for 
"The  Whisper  of  Earth,"  Edward  J.  O'Brien,  from  White  Fountains; 
for  "The  Dews"  and  "Clover,"  John  Banister  Tabb,  from  Lyrics. 

To  Messrs.  Stewart  &  Kidd  Company,  Cincinnati,  for  "The 
Golden  Bowl,"  Mary  MacMillan,  from  The  Little  Golden  Fountain, 
and  Other  Poems. 

To  Messrs.  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company  for  "A  Mocking-Bird" 
and  "The  Early  Gods,"  Witter  Bynner,  from  Grenstone  Poems;  for 
"The  Proud  Vegetables"  and  "Iris  Flowers,"  Mary  McNeil  Fenol- 
losa,  from  Blossoms  from  a  Japanese  Garden. 

To  Mr.  T.  Fisher  Unwin  for  "Autumnal,"  Richard  Middleton, 
from  Poems  and  Songs. 

To  Messrs.  James  T.  White  &  Co.  for  "Flowers  of  June,"  James 
Terry  White,  from  A  Garden  of  Remembrance;  for  "Song  of  the 
Weary  Traveller,"  Blanche  Shoemaker  Wagstaff,  from  Narcissus, 
and  Other  Poems. 


xv 


To  the  Atlantic  Monthly  for  "April  Rain,"  Conrad  Aiken:  for 
"Yellow  Warblers,"  Katharine  Lee  Bates;  for  "Safe,"  Robert  Haven 
S<  handler;  for  "The  Lilies,"  George  Edward  Woodberry. 

To  the  Centura  Magazine  for  "Order,"  Paul  Scott  Mowrer. 

To  the  Christian  Science  Monitor  for  "Family  Trees,"  Douglas 
Malloch. 

To  the  Churchman  for  "  The  Faithless  Flowers,"  Margaret  Widdemer. 

To  Contemporary  Verse  for  "The  Road  to  the  Pool,"  Grace  Hazard 
Conkling;  for  "The  Night-Moth,"  Marion  Couthouy  Smith. 

To  the  Craftsman  for  "The  Scissors-Man,"  Grace  Hazard  Conkling. 

To  the  Delineator  for  "In  my  Mother's  Garden,"  Margaret  Wid- 
demer. 

To  Everybody's  Magazine  for  "Years  Afterward,"  Nancy  Byrd 
Turner. 

To  Harper's  Monthly  Magazine  for  "Progress,"  Charlotte  Becker; 
for  "Oh,  tell  me  how  my  garden  grows,"  Mildred  Howells;  for  "A 
Song  for  Winter,"  Mrs.  Schuyler  Van  Rensselaer. 

To  the  Independent  for  "Blind,"  Harry  Kemp;  for  "The  Dusty 
Hour-Glass,"  Amy  Lowell;  for  "A  Midsummer  Garden,"  Clinton 
Scollard. 

To  the  Los  Angeles  Graphic  for  "A  White  Iris,"  Pauline  B.  Bar- 
rington. 

To  Lyric  for  "July  Midnight,"  Amy  Lowell. 

To  Munsey's  Magazine  for  "A  Puritan  Lady's  Garden,"  Sarah  N. 
Cleghorn;  for  "Spring  Song,"  William  Griffith;  for  "The  Fountain," 
Harry  Kemp. 

To  Mushrooms,  published  by  The  John  Marshall  Company,  for 
"Idealists,"  Alfred  Kreymborg. 

To  Others:  A  Magazine  of  New  Verse  for  "  Reflections"  ("Chinoise- 
ries"),  Amy  Lowell;  for  "Lord,  I  ask  a  Garden,"  R.  Arevalo  Martinez. 

To  the  New  York  Sun  for  "A  Colonial  Garden,"  James  B.  Kenyon. 

To  the  New  York  Times  for  "Grace  for  Gardens,"  Louise  Driscoll; 
for  "The  Welcome,"  Arthur  Powell. 

To  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse  for  "Spring  Song,"  Hilda  Conk- 

xvi 


ling;  for  "A  Lady  of  the  Snows,"  Harriet  Monroe;  for  "The  Mag- 
nolia," Jose1  Santos  Chocano,  translated  by  John  Pierrepont  Rice. 

To  Punch  for  "  Lavender,"  W.  W.  Blair  Fish. 

To  St.  Nicholas  for  "Velvets,"  Hilda  Conkling;  for  "When  Swal- 
lows Build,"  Catherine  Parmenter. 

To  Scribner's  Magazine  for  "Her  Garden,"  Louis  Dodge;  for  "The 
Path  that  leads  to  Nowhere,"  Corinne  Roosevelt  Robinson. 

To  the  Touchstone  for  "Dawn  in  my  Garden,"  Marguerite  Wil- 
kinson. 

To  the  Yale  Review  and  to  Mr.  Brian  Hooker  personally  for  "Bal- 
lade of  the  Dreamland  Rose"  from  Poems;  also  to  the  Yale  Review 
for  the  selection  from  "Earth,"  John  Hall  Wheelock. 

Personal  acknowledgment  is  also  made  to  the  following  poets  and 
individual  owners  of  copyrights:  — 

To  Miss  Zoe  Akins  for  "The  Snow-Gardens." 

To  Mr.  William  Stanley  Braithwaite  and  to  Mr.  Fletcher  person- 
all}7  for  "Spring,"  John  Gould  Fletcher,  printed  in  the  Poetry  Review. 

To  M.  G.  Brereton  for  "The  Old  Brocade"  from  A  Celtic  Christmas. 

To  Miss  Abbie  Farwell  Brown  for  "The  Wall"  in  manuscript. 

To  Mrs.  Grace  Hazard  Conkling  for  "The  Rose"  in  manuscript. 

To  Mr.  Miles  M.  Dawson  for  "The  Thistle"  from  Songs  of  the 
New  Time. 

To  Violet  Fane  (Lady  Curie)  for  "To  a  New  Sun-Dial "  from 
Collected  Poems. 

To  Mrs.  Mary  McNeil  Fenollosa  for  "Birth  of  the  Flowers." 

To  Mr.  Arthur  Guiterman  for  "Tulips"  and  "Columbines"  in 
manuscript. 

To  Miss  Mary  R.  Jewett  for  "Flowers  in  the  Dark,"  Sarah  Orne 
Jewett,  from  Verses  (privately  printed). 

To  Rev.  Arthur  Ketchum  for  "The  Spirit  of  the  Birch"  in  manu- 
script. 

To  Miss  Hannah  Parker  Kimball  for  "Sun,  Cardinal,  and  Corn 
Flowers"  from  Soul  and  Sense. 

xvii 


To  Mr.  William  Lindscy  for  "Two  Roses"  from  Apples  of  I stakliar. 

To  Catherine  Markham  (Mrs.  Edwin  Markham)  for  "A  Garden 
Friend." 

To  Mr.  Lloyd  Mifflin  for  "Draw  closer,  O  ye  Trees"  from  The 
Flying  Nymph,  and  Other  Verse. 

To  Miss  Angela  Morgan  for  "The  Awakening"  in  manuscript. 

To  E.  Nesbit  (Mrs.  Hubert  Bland)  for  "Baby  Seed  Song." 

To  Mr.  Shaemas  O  Sheel  for  "While  April  Rain  went  by"  from 
The  Light  Feet  of  Goats  (The  Franklin  Press). 

To  Mr.  Clinton  Scollard  for  "The  Crocus  Flame,"  and  "Sun- 
flowers," from  Ballads  Patriotic  and  Romantic;  for  "In  the  Garden- 
Close  at  Mezra"  and  "In  an  Egyptian  Garden"  from  The  Lutes 
of  Morn. 

To  Mrs.  Emily  Selinger  for  "Over  the  Garden  Wall." 

To  Mrs.  May  Riley  Smith  for  "Sorrow  in  a  Garden"  in  manu- 
script. 

To  the  estate  of  Frank  L.  Stanton  for  "  Sweetheart- Lady." 

To  Mr.  Charles  Wharton  Stork  for  "Boulders"  in  manuscript, 
and  for  "Color  Notes,"  printed  in  Lippincott's  Magazine. 

To  Mr.  Charles  Hanson  Towne  for  "A  White  Rose." 

To  Katharine  Tynan  (Mrs.  Henry  Albert  Hinkson)  for  "The 
Choice,"  published  by  Messrs.  Sidgwick  &  Jackson  in  The  Poems 
of  To-day,  an  anthology. 

To  Mr.  Frederic  A.  Whiting  for  his  own  poems  "A  Rose  Lover" 
and  "A  Wonder  Garden"  in  manuscript  and  for  "Kinfolk"  by 
Kate  Whiting  Patch. 

To  Mr.  Clement  Wood  for  "Rose-Geranium"  from  Glad  of  Earth. 

To  Mr.  Henry  A.  Wise  Wood  for  "The  Joy  of  a  Summer  Day." 

NOTE 

With  very  few  exceptions  only  the  poets  who  are  writing  to-day, 
or  who  have  written  within  a  period  of  ten  years,  are  represented 
in  this  collection;  and  certain  favorite  poems  peculiarly  suited  to 
the  spirit  of  this  book  which  chanced  to  be  included  in  High  Tide 
may  be  missed  here.     G.  M.  R. 


CONTENTS 

WITHIN   GARDEN   WALLS 

Earth    John  Hall  Wheelock 2 

The  Furrow    Padraic  Colum .       .  3 

"There  is  strength  in  the  soil"     Arthur  Stringer     ....  4 

In  the  Womb     "A.  E." 4 

Putting  in  the  Seed     Robert  Frost 5 

The  Whisper  of  Earth    Edward  J.  O'Brien 6 

"Within  the  garden  there  is  healthf ulness "    Emile  Verhaeren  6 

In  a  Garden    Horace  Holley 7 

A  Shower    Rowland  Thirlmere 8 

The  Rain     William  H.  Dairies 9 

The  Dews    John  B.  Tabb 9 

Sonnet     John  Masefield 10 

Charm :  To  be  said  in  the  Sun     Josephine  Preston  Peabody .       .11 

The  Dials    Arthur  Wallace  Peach 12 

To  a  New  Sundial     Violet  Fane 13 

The  Fountain    Harry  Kemp 14 

THE  PAGEANTRY  OF  GARDENS 

The  Birth  of  the  Flowers     Mary  McNeil  Fenollosa     ...  18 

The  Welcome     Arthur  Powell 19 

The  Joy  of  the  Springtime    Sarojini  Naidu 20 

Spring     John  Gould  Fletcher 20 

Primavera    George  Cabot  Lodge 21 

xix 


The  Croon  o'  the  Spring    Denis  A.  McCarthy      ....    22 

An  April  Morning     Bliss  Carman 23 

"With  memories  and  odors"     John  Hall  Whedock        ...     24 

April  Rain     Conrad  Aiken 25 

While  April  Rain  went  by    Shaemas  O  Sheel        ....     25 

Spring     Francis  Ledwidge 26 

April  Weather    Lizette  Woodworth  Reese 27 

Daffodils     Ruth  Guthrie  Harding 28 

The  Crocus  Flame     Clinton  Scollard 28 

The  Early  Gods     Witter  Dynner 30 

A  Tulip  Garden    Amy  Lowell 30 

Tulips    Arthur  Guiterman 31 

A  White  Iris     Pauline  B.  Barrington 32 

May  is  building  her  House    Richard  Le  Gallienne       ...    33 

The  Magnolia     Jos6  Santos  Chocano 34 

"  Go  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  "     Alfred  Noyes    .       .      .       .35 

Beyond     Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr 36 

June     Douglas  Malloch 36 

June  Rapture     Angela  Morgan 37 

Columbines     Arthur  Guiterman 39 

The  Morning-Glory     Florence  Earle  Coates 40 

The  Blossomy  Barrow     T.  A.  Daly 40 

Larkspur    James  Oppenheim 42 

The  July  Garden     Robert  Ernest  Vernede 43 

"Mid-summer  blooms  within  our  quiet  garden-ways"     Emile 

Verhaeren 44 

Poppies    John  Russell  Hayes 45 

The  Garden  in  August     Gertrude  Huntington  McGiffcrt     .       .     46 
Sun,  Cardinal,  and  Corn  Flowers    Hannah  Parker  Kimball    .    48 


xx 


Sunflowers     Clinton  Scollard        ........  48 

The  End  of  Summer    Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay    ....  49 

A  Late  Walk    Robert  Frost 50 

Color  Notes     Charles  Wharton  Stork 50 

The  Golden  Bowl    Mary  McMillan 51 

The  Autumn  Rose     Antoinette  De  Coursey  Patterson         .       .  52 

Indian  Summer    Sara  Teasdale 53 

"  Frost  to-night "     Edith  M.  Tfiomas 54 

November  Night    Adelaide  Crapsey 55 

The  Snow-Gardens    Zoe  Akins 55 

A  Song  for  Winter    Mrs.  Schuyler  Van  Rensselaer     ...  57 

WINGS  AND  SONG 

"I  meant  to  do  my  work  to-day"     Richard  Le  GaUienne   .      .  60 

The  Hummingbird    Hermann  Hagedorn 61 

Spring  Song     William  Griffith 62 

Nightingales    Grace  Hazard  Conkling 63 

The  Goldfinch     OdeU  Shepard 63 

Kinfolk     Kate  Whiting  Patch 65 

A  Mocking-Bird     Witter  Bynner 65 

The  Cardinal-Bird     Arthur  Guiterman 66 

Yellow  Warblers     Katharine  Lee  Bates 67 

Witchery     Frank  Dempster  Sherman 68 

The  Spring  Beauties    Helen  Gray  Cone 68 

,  The   Mocking-Bird    Frank  L.  Stanton 69 

The  Messenger    James  Stephens 71 

Fireflies     Antoinette  De  Coursey  Patterson 72 

July  Midnight    Amy  Lowell 72 

The  Cricket  in  the  Path     Amelia  Josephine  Burr       ...  73 

xxi 


Rest  at  Noon    Hermann  Hagedorn 74 

Order     Paul  Scott  Mowrcr 75 

The  Night-Moth     Marion  Couthouy  Smith 75 

The  Butterfly     Edwin  Markham 76 

The  Secret    Arthur  Wallace  Peach 77 

THE  GARDENS  OF  YESTERDAY 

The  Garden     Gertrude  Huntington  McGiffert         ....  80 

Old  Homes    Madison  Cawein 81 

A  Puritan  Lady's  Garden    Sarah  N.  Cleghorn      ....  82 

The  Old-fashioned  Garden    John  Russell  Hayes  ....  83 

A  Colonial  Garden    James  B.  Kenyon 86 

In  my  Mother's  Garden     Margaret  Widdemer     ....  87 

To  the  Sweetwilliam    Norman  Gale 88 

Rose-Geranium    Clement  Wood 90 

Four  O'Clocks    Julia  C.  R.  Dorr 91 

Asking  for  Roses    Robert  Frost 92 

The  Old  Brocade    M .  G.  Brereton 93 

Stairways  and  Gardens    Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox       ....  94 

Old  Mothers     Charles  Ross 95 

PASTURES  AND  HILLSIDES 

Song  from  "April"     Irene  Rutherford  McLeod      ....  98 

The  Road  to  the  Pool     Grace  Hazard  Conkling     ....  99 

The  Wild  Rose     Charles  Buxton  Going 99 

Up  a  Hill  and  a  Hill    Fannie  Stearns  Davis 100 

The  Joys  of  a  Summer  Morning     Henry  A.  Wise  Wood  .       .  101 

South  Wind    Siegfried  Sassoon 102 

To  a  Weed    Gertrude  Hall 102 

xxii 


The  Pasture.     Robert  Frost         104 

The  Thistle    Miles  M.  Dawson 104 

Clover    John  B.  Tabb 105 

Wild  Gardens    Ada  Foster  Murray 106 

The  Dandelion     Vachel  Lindsay 107 

Joe-Pyeweed    Louis  Untermeyer 108 

To  a  Daisy    Alice  Meynell 109 

A  Soft  Day    W.  M.  Letts 110 

Arbutus    Adelaide  Crapsey Ill 

Jewel- Weed    Florence  Earle  Coates Ill 

The  Wall    Abbie  Farwell  Brown 112 

Boulders.     Charles  Wharton  Stork 114 

Afternoon  on  a  Hill    Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay      .      .      .      .115 

The  Golden-Rod    Margaret  Deland 116 

The  Path  that  leads  to  Nowhere    Corinne  Roosevelt  Robinson  117 

LOVERS  AND  ROSES 

The  Message    George  Edward  Woodberry 120 

"Where  love  is  life"     Duncan  Campbell  Scott 121 

The  Time  of  Roses    Sarojini  Naidu 122 

Love  planted  a  Rose    Katharine  Lee  Bates 123 

The  Garden    Alice  Meynell 123 

Cloud  and  Flower    Agnes  Lee 124 

Progress     Charlotte  Becker 125 

"  But  we  did  walk  in  Eden "    Josephine  Preston  Peabody    .       .  125 

A  Garden-Piece    Edmund  Gosse 126 

"How  many  flowers  are  gently  met"     George  Sterling  .      .       .127 
With  a  Rose,  to  Brunhilde     Vachel  Lindsay         .      .      .      .127 

"  My  soul  is  like  a  garden-close  "     Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr.  .      .       .  128 

xxiii 


A  Dream     Antoinette  De  Courscy  Patterson 129 

The  Rose    Grace  Hazard  Conkling 130 

Prayer    John  Hall  Whcelock 130 

In  a  Garden     Livingston  L.  Diddle 131 

A  Song  of  Fairies    Elizabeth  Kirby 131 

A  Song  to  Belinda     Theodosia  Garrison 132 

Sweetheart-Lady    Frank  L.  Stanton 133 

Heart's  Garden.     Norreys  Jephson  O'Conor 133 

A  Rose  Lover    Frederic  A.  Whiting 134 

Sonnet    Elsa  Barker 135 

A  Song  in  a  Garden     Theodosia  Garrison 135 

"It  was  June  in  the  garden"    Emile  Verhaeren      ....  136 

Two  Roses     William  Lindsey 138 

Roses    Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 138 

Her  Garden    Louis  Dodge 139 

Mre  Perennius    Charles  Hanson  Towne   ......  139 

Ever  the  Same    Josephine  Preston  Peabody 140 

The   Message    Helen  Hay  Whitney 141 

Tell-Tale    Oliver  H erf ord 142 

Da  Thief     T.  A.  Daly 143 

Results  and  Roses    Edgar  A.  Guest 145 

UNDERNEATH  THE  BOUGH 

Miracle    L.  H.  Bailey 148 

The  Awakening    Angela  Morgan 149 

Shade     Theodosia  Garrison 150 

Selection  from  "Under  the  Trees"    Anna  Hempstead  Branch  151 

A  Garden  Friend    Catherine  Markham  (Mrs.  Edwin  Markham)  152 

A  Lady  of  the  Snows.     Harriet  Monroe 153 

xxiv 


The  Tree    Evelyn  Underhill 153 

"Loveliest  of  trees"    A.  E.  Housman 155 

The  Spirit  of  the  Birch    Arthur  Ketchum 156 

Family  Trees    Douglas  Malloch 156 

Idealists    Alfred  Kreymborg 158 

"Draw  closer,  0  ye  trees"    Lloyd  Mifflin 159 

Trees    Bliss  Carman 160 

The  Trees    Samuel  Valentine  Cole 162 

The  Poplars     Theodosia  Garrison 164 

Trees    Joyce  Kilmer 165 

THE  LOST  GARDENS  OF  THE  HEART 

As  in  a  Rose- Jar     Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr.         168 

In  an  Old  Garden    Madison  Cawein 169 

The  Garden  of  Dreams    Bliss  Carman 169 

Homesick    Julia  C.  R.  Dorr 170 

The  Ways  of  Time     William  H.  Davies 172 

A  Midsummer  Garden     Clinton  Scollard 172 

The  White  Rose    Charles  Hanson  Toume 173 

A  Haunted  Garden     Louis  Untermeyer 174 

The  Dusty  Hour-Glass    Amy  Lowell 176 

The  Song  of  Wandering  Aengus     W.  B.  Yeats      ....  177 

The  Three  Cherry  Trees     Walter  de  la  Mare 178 

Old  Gardens    Arthur  Upson 179 

The  Blooming  of  the  Rose  Anna  Hempstead  Branch  .  .  .  179 
The  Garden  of  Mnemosyne  Rosamund  Marriott  Watson  .  .181 
Ballade  of  the  Dreamland  Rose     Brian  Hooker    ....  181 

The  Flowers  of  June    James  Terry  White 183 

In  Memory's  Garden     Thomas  Walsh 183 

xxv 


Serenade    Marjorie  L.  C.  Picktfiall .184 

"What  heart  but  fears  a  fragrance?  "     Martha  Gilbert  Dickinson 

Bianchi 185 

Years  Afterward    Nancy  Byrd  Turner 186 

Autumnal     Richard  Middleton 186 

"Oh,  tell  me  how  my  garden  grows"     Mildred  Howells  .       .       .  188 

Her  Garden    Eldredge  Denison 189 

The  Little  Ghost    Edna  St.  Vincent  MUlay          .      .      .      .190 
Roses  in  the  Subway    Dana  Burnet 191 

THE  GARDEN  OVER-SEAS 

A  Garden  Prayer     Thomas  Walsh 194 

In  the  Garden-Close  at  Mezra    Clinton  Scollard         .      .      .  195 

The  Cactus    Laurence  Hope 195 

The  White  Peacock    William  Sharp 196 

At  Isola  Bella    Jessie  B.  Rittenhouse 198 

The  Fountain    Sara  Teasdale 199 

The  Champa  Flower    Rabindranath  Tagore 200 

In  an  Egyptian  Garden    Clinton  Scollard 201 

Evening  in  Old  Japan    Antoinette  De  Coursey  Patterson    .      .  202 

^^-Reflections    Amy  Lowell 203 

In  the  Garden    Pai  Ta-Shun 204 

The  Deserted  Garden    Pai  Ta-Shun 204 

A  Roman  Garden    Florence  Wilkinson  Evans       ....  205 

Como  in  April     Robert  Underwood  Johnson 207 

An  Exile's  Garden    Sophie  Jewett 207 

The  Cloister  Garden  at  Certosa    Richard  Burton      .      .      .  208 
A  Garden  in  Venice    Dorothy  Frances  Gurney      ....  209 

In  a  Garden  of  Granada    Thomas  Walsh 210 

xxvi 


Amiel's  Garden    Gertrude  Huntington  McGiffert  .      .      .       .211 

Eden-Hunger     William  Watson 212 

The  Garden  at  Bemerton     Lizette  Woodworth  Reese    .       .       .  212 
In  an  Oxford  Garden    Arthur  Upson 213 

THE  HOMELY  GARDEN 
"Grandmother 's  gathering  boneset"     Edith  M.  Thomas    .       .216 

A  Breath  of  Mint     Grace  Hazard  Conkling 217 

A  Seller  of  Herbs     Lizette  Woodworth  Reese 218 

Lavender    W.  W.  Blair  Fish 219 

Dawn  in  my  Garden     Marguerite  Wilkinson         .       .       .       .221 
The  Proud  Vegetables    Mary  McNeil  Fenollosa  .      .       .       .221 

The  Choice    Katharine  Tynan 223 

Thoughts  fer  the  Discuraged  Farmer    JamesWhitcombRiley    .  225 
Grace  for  Gardens    Louise  Driscoll 226 

SILVER  BELLS  AND  COCKLE  SHELLS 

Planting     Robert  Livingston 230 

Spring  Patchwork    Abbie  Farwell  Brown 231 

Baby's  Valentine     Laura  E.  Richards 232 

Baby  Seed  Song    E.  Nesbit 234 

Rain  in  the  Night    Amelia  Josephine  Burr 235 

A  Little  Girl's  Songs  —  I,  Spring  Song;  II,  Velvets  (By  a  Bed 

of  Pansies)     Hilda  Conkling  (six  years  old)        ....  236 
When  Swallows  Build     Catherine  Parmenter  (eleven  years  old) .  238 

Spring  Planting     Helen  Hay  Whitney 239 

If  I  could  dig  like  a  Rabbit     Rose  Strong  Hubbell        .       .       .  239 

The  Little  God     Katharine  Howard 240 

Daisies     Frank  Dempster  Sherman 241 

xxvii 


The  Anxious  Farmer     Burges  Johnson 242 

Over  the  Garden  Wall    Emily  Selinger 243 

The  Flowerphone    Abbie  Farwell  Brown 244 

The  Faithless  Flowers     Margaret  Widdemer 245 

The  Flower-School     Rabindranath  Tagore 246 

Iris  Flowers     Mary  McNeil  Fcnollosa 247 

If  I  were  a  Fairy     Charles  Buxton  Going        249 

1  ringed  Gentians     Amy  Lowell 250 

The  Scissors-Man    Grace  Hazard  Conkling 250 

THE  GARDEN  OF  LIFE 

God's  Garden     Richard  Burton 254 

"The  Lord  God  planted  a  garden"     Dorothy  Frances  Gurney        .  255 

The  Lilies     George  E.  Woodberry 255 

Barter    Sara  Teasdale 256 

Sonnet    John  Masefield 257 

The  Tilling     Cale  Young  Rice 258 

Safe     Robert  Haven  Schaujjler 259 

Sorrow  in  a  Garden     May  Riley  Smith 260 

Moth-Flowers    Jeanne  Robert  Foster 262 

Alchemy    Sara  Teasdale 262 

Flowers  in  the  Dark     Sarah  Orne  Jewett 263 

Welcome     John  Curtis  Underwood 264 

The  Child  in  the  Garden     Henry  van  Dyke 265 

A  Wonder  Garden     Frederic  A.  Whiting 266 

From  a  Car-Window     Ruth  Guthrie  Harding       ....  267 
Song  of  the  Weary  Traveller    BlancJie  Shoemaker  Wagstaff     .  267 

Cobwebs    Louise  Imogen  Guiney 268 

Blind     Harry  Kemp 269 

xxviii 


Herb  of  Grace     Amelia  Josephine  Burr 270 

Before  Mary  of  Magdala  came    Edwin  Markham       .       .       .  270 

Conscience     Margaret  Steele  Anderson 273 

Rosa  Mystica    Katharine  Tynan 273 

The  Mystery    Ralph  Hodgson 275 

The  Rose    Angela  Morgan 275 

For  These    Edward  Thomas  (Edward  Eastaway)         .      .      .  276 

Samuel  Gardner    Edgar  Lee  Masters 277 

Seeds    John  Oxenham 278 

"Lord,  I  ask  a  Garden"     R.  Arevalo  Martinez        ....  279 
My  Flower-Room    Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox 280 

"Vestured    and    veiled    with    twilight"     Rosamund    Marriott 

Watson 282 

The  Fruit  Garden  Path    Amy  Lowell 283 

Wood  Song    Sara  Teasdale 284 

A  Prayer    Edwin  Markham  284 

The  Philosopher's  Garden    John  Oxenham 285 

Index  of  Titles 287 

Index  of  Authors 297 


WITHIN  GARDEN  WALLS 


EARTH 

Grasshopper,  your  fairy  song 

And  my  poem  alike  belong 

To  the  deep  and  silent  earth 

From  which  all  poetry  has  birth; 

All  we  say  and  all  we  sing 

Js  but  as  the  murmuring 

Of  that  drowsy  heart  of  hers 

When  from  her  deep  dream  she  stirs: 

If  we  sorrow,  or  rejoice, 

You  and  I  are  but  her  voice. 

Deftly  does  the  dust  express 
In  mind  her  hidden  loveliness, 
And  from  her  cool  silence  stream 
The  cricket's  cry  and  Dante's  dream: 
For  the  earth  that  breeds  the  trees 
Breeds  cities  too,  and  symphonies, 
Equally  her  beauty  flows 
Into  a  savior  or  a  rose. 

Even  as  the  growing  grass 

Up  from  the  soil  religions  pass, 

And  the  field  that  bears  the  rye 

Bears  parables  and  prophecy. 

Out  of  the  earth  the  poem  grows 

Like  the  lily,  or  the  rose; 

And  all  that  man  is  or  yet  may  be, 

Is  but  herself  in  agony 

Toiling  up  the  steep  ascent 

Towards  the  complete  accomplishment 

When  all  dust  shall  be,  the  whole 

Universe,  one  conscious  soul. 

Yea,  and  this  my  poem,  too, 
Is  part  of  her  as  dust  and  dew, 
Wherein  herself  she  doth  declare 
Through  my  lips,  and  say  her  prayer. 

John  Hall  Wheelock 


THE  FURROW 

Stride  the  hill,  sower, 
Up  to  the  sky-ridge, 
Flinging  the  seed, 
Scattering,  exultant! 
Mouthing  great  rhythms 
To  the  long  sea  beats 
On  the  wide  shore,  behind 
The  ridge  of  the  hillside. 

Below  in  the  darkness  — 
The  slumber  of  mothers  — 
The  cradles  at  rest  — 
The  fire-seed  sleeping 
Deep  in  white  ashes! 

Give  to  darkness  and  sleep: 
O  sower,  0  seer! 
Give  me  to  the  Earth. 
With  the  seed  I  would  enter. 
0!  the  growth  thro'  the  silence 
From  strength  to  new  strength; 
Then  the  strong  bursting  forth 
Against  primal  forces, 
To  laugh  in  the  sunshine, 
To  gladden  the  world! 

Padraic  Colum 
t  8 


"THERE  IS  STRENGTH  IN  THE  SOIL'! 

There  is  strength  in  the  soil ; 

In  the  earth  there  is  laughter  and  youth. 

There  is  solace  and  hope  in  the  upturned  loam. 

And  lo,  I  shall  plant  my  soul  in  it  here  like  a  seed! 

And  forth  it  shall  come  to  me  as  a  flower  of  song; 

For  I  know  it  is  good  to  get  back  to  the  earth 

That  is  orderly,  placid,  all-patient! 

It  is  good  to  know  how  quiet 

And  noncommittal  it  breathes, 

This  ample  and  opulent  bosom 

That  must  some  day  nurse  us  all! 

Arthur  Stringer 


IN  THE  WOMB 

Still  rests  the  heavy  share  on  the  dark  soil : 
Upon  the  black  mould  thick  the  dew-damp  lies: 
The  horse  waits  patient:  from  his  lowly  toil 
The  ploughboy  to  the  morning  lifts  his  eyes. 

The  unbudding  hedgerows  dark  against  day's  fires 
Glitter  with  gold-lit  crystals :  on  the  rim 
Over  the  unregarding  city's  spires 
The  lonely  beauty  shines  alone  for  him. 

4 


And  day  by  day  the  dawn  or  dark  unfolds 
And  feeds  with  beauty  eyes  that  cannot  see 
How  in  her  womb  the  mighty  mother  moulds 
The  infant  spirit  for  eternity. 

"A.  E." 

(George  William  Russell) 


PUTTING  IN  THE  SEED 

You  come  to  fetch  me  from  my  work  to-night 
When  supper  's  on  the  table,  and  we'll  see 
If  I  can  leave  off  burying  the  white 
Soft  petals  fallen  from  the  apple  tree. 

(Soft  petals,  yes,  but  not  so  barren  quite, 
Mingled  with  these,  smooth  bean  and  wrinkled  pea;) 
And  go  along  with  you  ere  you  lose  sight 
Of  what  you  came  for  and  become  like  me, 

Slave  to  a  springtime  passion  for  the  earth. 
How  Love  burns  through  the  Putting  in  the  Seed 
On  through  the  watching  for  that  early  birth 
When,  just  as  the  soil  tarnishes  with  weed, 

The  sturdy  seedling  with  arched  body  comes 
Shouldering  its  way  and  shedding  the  earth  crumbs. 

Robert  Frost 
5 


THE  WHISPER  OF  EARTH 

In  the  misty  hollow,  shyly  greening  branches 
Soften  to  the  south  wind,  bending  to  the  rain. 
From  the  moistened  earthland  flutter  little  whispers, 
Breathing  hidden  beauty,  innocent  of  stain. 

Little  plucking  fingers  tremble  through  the  grasses, 
Little  silent  voices  sigh  the  dawn  of  spring, 
Little  burning  earth-flames  break  the  awful  stillness, 
Little  crying  wind-sounds  come  before  the  King. 

Powers,  dominations  urge  the  budding  of  the  crocus, 
Cherubim  are  singing  in  the  moist  cool  stone, 
Seraphim  are  calling  through  the  channels  of  the  lily, 
God  has  heard  the  earth-cry  and  journeys  to  His  throne. 

Edward  J.  O'Brien 


"WITHIN  THE  GARDEN  THERE  IS 
HEALTHFULNESS" 

Within  the  garden  there  is  healthfulness. 

Lavishly  it  gives  it  us 
In  light  that  cleaves 
To  every  movement  of  its  thousand  hands 
Of  palms  and  leaves. 

6 


And  the  good  shade  where  it  accepts, 
After  long  journeyings, 

Out  steps, 
Pours  on  the  weary  limb 
A  force  of  life  and  sweetness  like 
Its  mosses  dim. 

When  the  lake  is  playing  with  the  wind  and  sun, 

It  seems  a  crimson  heart 

Within,  all  ardent,  has  begun 

To  throb  with  the  moving  wave; 
The  gladiolus  and  the  fervent  rose, 
Which  in  their  splendor  move  unshadowed, 

Upon  their  vital  stems  expose 

Their  cups  of  gold  and  red. 

Within  the  garden  there  is  healthfulness. 

Emile  Verhaeren 


IN  A  GARDEN 

I  stood  within  a  Garden  during  rain 
Uncovering  to  the  drops  my  lifted  brow: 

0  joyous  fancy,  to  imagine  now 

1  slip,  with  trees  and  clouds,  the  social  chain, 
Alone  with  nature,  naught  to  lose  or  gain 

7 


Nor  even  to  become;  no,  just  to  be 

A  moment's  personal  essence,  wholly  free 

From  needs  that  mold  the  heart  to  forms  of  pain. 

Arise,  I  cried,  and  celebrate  the  hour! 

Acclaim  serener  gladness;  if  it  fail, 

New  courage,  nobler  vision,  will  survive 

That  I  have  known  my  kinship  to  the  flower, 

My  brotherhood  with  rain,  and  in  this  vale 

Have  been  a  moment's  friend  to  all  alive. 

Horace  Hollet 


A  SHOWER 

You  may  have  seen,  when  winds  were  high, 
That  hesitant  buds  would  not  unfold 
In  garden-borders  chill  and  dry, 
Bright  with  the  Easter-lilies'  gold. 

Then,  suddenly,  would  come  a  shower  — 
The  big  breeze  veering  to  the  west  — 
And  happier  music  filled  the  bower 
Above  the  thrush's  hidden  nest: 

The  elm-tree's  inconspicuous  bloom 
Vanished  amidst  her  little  leaves; 
In  box  and  bay  a  fragrant  gloom 
Inspired  the  wren's  recitatives:    ■ 
8 


The  woods  assumed  their  delicate  green 
And  spoke  in  songs  that  brought  you  bliss: 
Ay,  and  your  withered  heart  has  been 
Quickened  on  such  a  day  as  this! 

Rowland  Thirlmere 

THE  RAIN 

I  hear  leaves  drinking  Rain; 

I  hear  rich  leaves  on  top 
Giving  the  poor  beneath 

Drop  after  drop; 
'T  is  a  sweet  noise  to  hear 
These  green  leaves  drinking  near. 

And  when  the  Sun  comes  out, 

After  this  Rain  shall  stop, 
A  wondrous  Light  will  fill 

Each  dark,  round  drop; 

I  hope  the  Sun  shines  bright; 

'T  will  be  a  lovely  sight. 

William  H.  Davies 

THE  DEWS 

We  come  and  go,  as  the  breezes  blow, 

But  whence  or  where 
Hath  ne'er  been  told  in  the  legends  old 

By  the  dreaming  seer, 
o 


The  welcome  rain  to  the  parching  plain 

And  the  languid  leaves,      ■ 
The  rattling  hail  on  the  burnished  mail 

Of  the  serried  sheaves, 
The  silent  snow  on  the  wintry  brow 

Of  the  aged  year, 
Wends  each  his  way  in  the  track  of  day 

From  a  clouded  sphere: 
But  still  as  the  fog  in  the  dismal  bog 

Where  the  shifting  sheen 
Of  the  spectral  lamp  lights  the  marshes  damp, 

With  a  flash  unseen 
We  drip  through  the  night  from  the  starlids  bright, 

On  the  sleeping  flowers, 
And  deep  in  their  breast  is  our  perfumed  rest 

Through  the  darkened  hours: 
But  again  with  the  day  we  are  up  and  away 

With  our  stolen  dyes, 

To  paint  all  the  shrouds  of  the  drifting  clouds 

In  the  eastern  skies. 

John  B.  Tabb 

.  SONNET 

It  may  be  so;  but  let  the  unknown  be. 
We,  on  this  earth,  are  servants  of  the  sun. 
Out  of  the  sun  comes  all  the  quick  in  me, 
His  golden  touch  is  life  to  everyone. 
10 


His  power  it  is  that  makes  us  spin  through  space, 
His  youth  is  April  and  his  manhood  bread, 
Beauty  is  but  a  looking  on  his  face, 
He  clears  the  mind,  he  makes  the  roses  red. 

What  he  may  be,  who  knows?  But  we  are  his, 
We  roll  through  nothing  round  him,  year  by  jrear, 
The  withering  leaves  upon  a  tree  which  is 
Each  with  his  greed,  his  little  power,  his  fear. 

What  we  may  be,  who  knows?  But  everyone 
Is  dust  on  dust  a  servant  of  the  sun. 

John  Masefield 

CHARM:  TO  BE  SAID  IN  THE  SUN 

I  reach  my  arms  up,  to  the  sky, 
And  golden  vine  on  vine 
Of  sunlight  showered  wild  and  high, 
Around  my  brows  I  twine. 

I  wreathe,  I  wind  it  everywhere, 
The  burning  radiancy 
Of  brightness  that  no  eye  may  dare, 
To  be  the  strength  of  me. 

Come,  redness  of  the  crystalline, 
Come  green,  come  hither  blue 
And  violet  —  all  alive  within, 
For  I  have  need  of  you. 
ll 


Come  honey-hue  and  flush  of  gold, 
And  through  the  pallor  run, 
With  pulse  on  pulse  of  manifold 
New  largess  of  the  Sun! 

O  steep  the  silence  till  it  sing! 
O  glories  from  the  height, 
Come  down,  where  I  am  garlanding 
With  light,  a  child  of  light! 

Josephine  Preston  Peabody 

THE  DIALS 

With  fingers  softer  than  the  touch  of  death 
The  sundial  writes  the  passing  of  the  day, 
The  hours  unfolding  slow  to  twilight  gray, 
The  gleaming  moments  vanish  in  a  breath. 

But  sunny  hours  alone  the  sundial  names; 
All  unrecorded  are  the  midnight  spans 
And  vain  within  the  dusk  the  watcher  scans 
The  marble  face;  thereon  no  record  flames. 

So  on  eternal  dials  that  God  may  hold, 
And  those  more  humble  in  the  human  heart, 
No  bitter  deeds  their  passing  hours  impart; 
Kind  deeds  alone  are  marked  in  fadeless  gold! 

Arthur  Wallace  Peach 
12 


TO  A  NEW  SUNDIAL 

Oh,  Sundial,  you  should  not  be  young, 
Or  fresh  and  fair,  or  spick  and  span! 
None  should  remember  when  began 
Your  tenure  here,  nor  whence  you  sprung! 

Like  ancient  cromlech  notch'd  and  scarr'd, 
I  would  have  had  you  sadly  tow'r 
Above  this  world  of  leaf  and  flower 
All  ivy-tress'd  and  lichen-starr'd; 

Ambassador  of  Time  and  Fate, 
In  contrast  stern  to  bud  and  bloom, 
Seeming  half  temple  and  half  tomb, 
And  wholly  solemn  and  sedate; 

Till,  one  with  God's  own  works  on  earth, 
The  lake,  the  vale,  the  mountain-brow, 
We  might  have  come  to  count  you  now 
WTiose  home  was  here  before  our  birth. 

But  lo!  a  priggish,  upstart  thing  — 
Set  here  to  tell  so  old  a  truth  — 
How  fleeting  are  our  days  of  youth  — 
You,  that  were  only  made  last  spring! 
13 


Go  to!  .  .  .  What  sermon  can  you  preach, 
Oh,  mushroom  —  mentor  pert  and  new? 
We  are  too  old  to  learn  of  you 
What  you  are  all  too  young  to  teach! 

Yet,  Sundial,  you  and  I  may  swear 
Eternal  friendship,  none  the  less, 
For  I  '11  respect  your  youtlifulness 
If  you'll  forgive  my  silver  hair! 

Violet  Fane 


THE  FOUNTAIN 

I  thought  my  garden  finished.  I  beheld 
Each  bush  bee- visited;  a  green  charm  quelled 
The  louder  winds  to  music ;  soft  boughs  made 
Patches  of  silver  dusk  and  purple  shade  — 
And  yet  I  felt  a  lack  of  something  still. 

a 

There  was  a  little,  sleepy-footed  rill 
That  lapsed  among  sun-burnished  stones,  where  slept 
Fish,  rainbow-scaled,  while  dragon-flies,  adept, 
Balanced  on  bending  grass. 

All  perfect?  No. 
My  garden  lacked  a  fountain's  upward  flow. 

14 


I  coaxed  the  brook's  young  Naiad  to  resign 
Her  meadow  wildness,  building  her  a  shrine 
Of  worship,  where  each  ravished  waif  of  air 
Might  wanton  in  the  brightness  of  her  hair. 

So  here  my  fountain  flows,  loved  of  the  wind, 

To  every  vagrant,  aimless  gust  inclined, 

Yet  constant  ever  to  its  source.  It  greets 

The  face  of  morning,  wavering  windy  sheets 

Of  woven  silver;  sheer  it  climbs  the  noon, 

A  shaft  of  bronze;  and  underneath  the  moon 

It  sleeps  in  pearl  and  opal.  In  the  storm 

It  streams  far  out,  a  wild,  gray,  blowing  form; 

While  on  calm  days  it  heaps  above  the  lake,  — 

Pelting  the  dreaming  lilies  half  awake, 

And  pattering  jewels  on  each  wide,  green  frond,  — 

Recurrent  pyramids  of  diamond! 

Harry  Kemp 


THE  PAGEANTRY  OF  GARDENS 


THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  FLOWERS 

God  spoke !  and  from  the  arid  scene 
Sprang  rich  and  verdant  bowers, 
Till  all  the  earth  was  soft  with  green,  — 
He  smiled;  and  there  were  flowers. 

Mary  McNeil  Fenollosa 


THE  WELCOME 

God  spreads  a  carpet  soft  and  green 

O'er  which  we  pass; 
A  thick-piled  mat  of  jeweled  sheen  — 

And  that  is  Grass. 

Delightful  music  woos  the  ear; 

The  grass  is  stirred 
Down  to  the  heart  of  every  spear  — 

Ah,  that 's  a  Bird. 

Clouds  roll  before  a  blue  immense 

That  stretches  high 
And  lends  the  soul  exalted  sense  — 

That  scroll's  a  Sky. 

Green  rollers  flaunt  their  sparkling  crests; 

Their  jubilee 
Extols  brave  Captains  and  their  quests  — 

And  that  is  Sea. 

New-leaping  grass,  the  feathery  flute, 

The  sapphire  ring, 
The  sea's  full-voiced,  profound  salute,  — 

Ah,  this  is  Spring! 

Arthur  Powell 

19 


THE  JOY  OF  THE  SPRINGTIME 

Springtime,  0  Springtime,  what  is  your  essence, 
The  lilt  of  a  bulbul,  the  laugh  of  a  rose, 
The  dance  of  the  dew  on  the  wings  of  a  moonbeam, 
The  voice  of  the  zephyr  that  sings  as  he  goes, 
The  hope  of  a  bride  or  the  dream  of  a  maiden 
Watching  the  petals  of  gladness  unclose? 

Springtime,  0  Springtime,  what  is  your  secret, 
The  bliss  at  the  core  of  your  magical  mirth, 
That  quickens  the  pulse  of  the  morning  to  wonder 
And  hastens  the  seeds  of  all  beauty  to  birth, 
That  captures  the  heavens  and  conquers  to  blossom 
The  roots  of  delight  in  the  heart  of  the  earth? 

Sarojini  Naidu 

SPRING 

At  the  first  hour,  it  was  as  if  one  said,  "Arise." 
At  the  second  hour,  it  was  as  if  one  said,  "Go  forth." 
And  the  winter  constellations  that  are  like  patient  ox-eyes 
Sank  below  the  white  horizon  at  the  north. 

At  the  third  hour,  it  was  as  if  one  said,  "I  thirst"; 
At  the  fourth  hour,  all  the  earth  was  still: 
Then  the  clouds  suddenly  swung  over,  stooped,  and  burst; 
And  the  rain  flooded  valley,  plain  and  hill. 

20 


At  the  fifth  hour,  darkness  took  the  throne; 
At  the  sixth  hour,  the  earth  shook  and  the  wind  cried; 
At  the  seventh  hour,  the  hidden  seed  was  sown, 
At  the  eighth  hour,  it  gave  up  the  ghost  and  died. 

At  the  ninth  hour,  they  sealed  up  the  tomb; 
And  the  earth  was  then  silent  for  the  space  of  three  hours. 
But  at  the  twelfth  hour,  a  single  lily  from  the  gloom 
Shot  forth,  and  was  followed  by  a  whole  host  of  flowers. 

John  Gould  Fletcher 

PRIMAVERA 

Spirit  immortal  of  mortality, 

Imperishable  faith,  calm  miracle 

Of  resurrection,  truth  no  tongue  can  tell, 

No  brain  conceive,  —  now  witnessed  utterly 
In  this  new  testament  of  earth  and  sea,  — 

To  us  thy  gospel!  Where  the  acorn  fell 

The  oak-tree  springs:  no  seed  is  infidel! 

Once  more,  0  Wonder,  flower  and  field  and  tree 
Reveal  thy  secret  and  significance! 

And  we,  who  share  unutterable  things 

And  feel  the  foretaste  of  eternity, 
Haply  shall  learn  thy  meaning  and  perchance 

Set  free  the  soul  to  lift  immortal  wings 

And  cross  the  frontiers  of  infinity. 

George  Cabot  Lodge 
21 


THE  GREEN  0'  THE  SPRING 

Sure,  afther  all  the  winther, 

An'  afther  all  the  snow, 
'T  is  fine  to  see  the  sunshine, 

'T  is  fine  to  feel  its  glow; 
'T  is  fine  to  see  the  buds  break 

On  boughs  that  bare  have  been  — 
But  best  of  all  to  Irish  eyes 

'T  is  grand  to  see  the  green! 

Sure,  afther  all  the  winther, 

An'  afther  all  the  snow, 
'T  is  fine  to  hear  the  brooks  sing 

As  on  their  way  they  go; 
'T  is  fine  to  hear  at  mornin' 

The  voice  of  robineen, 
But  best  of  all  to  Irish  eyes 

'T  is  grand  to  see  the  green! 

Sure,  here  in  grim  New  England 

The  spring  is  always  slow, 
An'  every  bit  o'  green  grass 

Is  kilt  wid  frost  and  snow; 
Ah,  many  a  heart  is  weary 

The  winther  days,  I  ween 
But  oh,  the  joy  when  springtime  comes 

An'  brings  the  blessed  green! 

Denis  A.  McCarthy 

22 


AN  APRIL  MORNING 

Once  more  in  misted  April 
The  world  is  growing  green. 
Along  the  winding  river 
The  plumey  willows  lean. 

Beyond  the  sweeping  meadows 
The  looming  mountains  rise, 
Like  battlements  of  dreamland 
Against  the  brooding  skies. 

In  every  wooded  valley 
The  buds  are  breaking  through, 
As  though  the  heart  of  all  things 
No  languor  ever  knew. 

The  golden-wings  and  bluebirds 
Call  to  their  heavenly  choirs. 
The  pines  are  blued  and  drifted 
With  smoke  of  brushwood  fires. 

And  in  my  sister's  garden 
Where  little  breezes  run, 
The  golden  daffodillies 
Are  blowing  in  the  sun. 


Bliss  Carman 


23 


"WITH  MEMORIES  AND  ODORS" 

With  memories  and  odors 

The  wind  is  warm  and  mild; 
The  earth  is  like  a  mother 

Where  leaps  the  unborn  child. 

The  grackles  flock  returning 

Like  rain-clouds  from  the  south. 
And  all  the  world  lies  yearning 

Toward  summer,  mouth  to  mouth. 

How  soft  the  hills  and  hazy 

Seen  through  the  open  door!  — 
The  crocus  shines,  a  virgin, 

White  from  the  grassy  floor. 

The  children  whirl  around  in  a  ring, 
And  laugh  and  sing,  and  dance  and  sing: 
But  the  blackbird  whistles  clear, 
0  clear, 
{'The  Spring,  the  Spring!" 

John  Hall  Wheelock 


24 


APRIL  RAIN 

Fall,  rain!  You  are  the  blood  of  coming  blossom, 
You  shall  be  music  in  the  young  birds'  throats, 
You  shall  be  breaking,  soon,  in  silver  notes; 
A  virgin  laughter  in  the  young  earth's  bosom. 
Oh,  that  I  could  with  you  reenter  earth, 
Pass  through  her  heart  and  come  again  to  sun, 
Out  of  her  fertile  dark  to  sing  and  run 
In  loveliness  and  fragrance  of  new  mirth! 
Fall,  rain!  Into  the  dust  I  go  with  you, 
Pierce  the  remaining  snows  with  subtle  fire, 
Warming  the  frozen  roots  with  soft  desire, 
Dreams  of  ascending  leaves  and  flowers  new. 
I  am  no  longer  body,  —  I  am  blood 
Seeking  for  some  new  loveliness  of  shape; 
Dark  loveliness  that  dreams  of  new  escape, 
The  sun-surrender  of  unclosing  bud. 
Take  me,  0  Earth!  and  make  me  what  you  will; 
I  feel  my  heart  with  mingled  music  fill. 

Conrad  Aiken 

WHILE  APRIL  RAIN  WENT  BY 

Under  a  budding  hedge  I  hid 

While  April  rain  went  by, 
But  little  drops  came  slipping  through, 

Fresh  from  a  laughing  sky: 
25 


A-many  little  scurrying  drops, 

Laughing  the  song  they  sing, 
Soon  found  me  where  I  sought  to  hide, 

And  pelted  me  with  Spring. 

And  I  lay  back  and  let  them  pelt, 

And  dreamt  deliciously 
Of  lusty  leaves  and  lady-blossoms 

And  baby-buds  I  'd  see 

When  April  rain  had  laughed  the  land 

Out  of  its  wintry  way, 
And  coaxed  all  growing  things  to  greet 

With  gracious  garb  the  May. 

Shaemas  O  Sheel 


SPRING 

The  dews  drip  roses  on  the  meadows 
Where  the  meek  daisies  dot  the  sward. 
And  ^Eolus  whispers  through  the  shadows, 
"Behold  the  handmaid  of  the  Lord!" 
The  golden  news  the  skylark  waketh 
And  'thwart  the  heavens  his  flight  is  curled; 
Attend  ye  as  the  first  note  breaketh 
And  chrism  droppeth  on  the  world. 
26 


The  velvet  dusk  still  haunts  the  stream 
Where  Pan  makes  music  light  and  gay. 
The  mountain  mist  hath  caught  a  beam 
And  slowly  weeps  itself  away. 
The  young  leaf  bursts  its  chrysalis 
And  gem-like  hangs  upon  the  bough, 
Where  the  mad  throstle  sings  in  bliss 
O'er  earth's  rejuvenated  brow. 

ENVOI 

Slowly  fall,  0  golden  sands, 
Slowly  fall  and  let  me  sing, 
Wrapt  in  the  ecstasy  of  youth, 
The  wild  delights  of  Spring. 

Francis  Ledwidge 


APRIL  WEATHER 

Oh,  hush,  my  heart,  and  take  thine  ease, 

For  here  is  April  weather! 
The  daffodils  beneath  the  trees 

Are  all  a-row  together. 

The  thrush  is  back  with  his  old  note; 

The  scarlet  tulip  blowing; 
And  white  —  ay,  white  as  my  love's  throat 

The  dogwood  boughs  are  glowing. 
27 


The  lilac  bush  is  sweet  again; 

Down  every  wind  that  passes, 
Fly  flakes  from  hedgerow  and  from  lane; 

The  bees  are  in  the  grasses. 

And  Grief  goes  out,  and  Joy  comes  in, 

And  Care  is  but  a  feather; 
And  every  lad  his  love  can  win, 

For  here  is  April  weather. 

LlZETTE   WOODWORTH   REESE 

DAFFODILS 

There  flames  the  first  gay  daffodil 
Where  winter-long  the  snows  have  lain: 
Who  buried  Love,  all  spent  and  still? 
There  flames  the  first  gay  daffodil. 
Go,  Love  's  alive  on  yonder  hill, 
And  yours  for  asking,  joy  and  pain, 
There  flames  the  first  gay  daffodil 
Where  winter-long  the  snows  have  lain! 

Ruth  Guthrie  Harding 

THE  CROCUS  FLAME 

The  Easter  sunrise  flung  a  bar  of  gold 
O'er  the  awakening  wold. 
What  was  thine  answer,  O  thou  brooding  earth, 
What  token  of  re-birth, 
28 


Of  tender  vernal  mirth, 

Thou  the  long-prisoned  in  the  bonds  of  cold? 

Under  the  kindling  panoply  which  God 
Spreads  over  tree  and  clod, 
I  looked  far  abroad. 

Umber  the  sodden  reaches  seemed  and  seer 
As  when  the  dying  year, 
With  rime-white  sandals  shod, 
Faltered  and  fell  upon  its  frozen  bier. 
Of  some  rathe  quickening,  some  divine 
Renascence  not  a  sign! 

And  yet,  and  yet, 

With  touch  of  viol-chord,  with  mellow  fret, 

The  lyric  South  amid  the  bough-tops  stirred, 

And  one  lone  bird 

An  unexpected  jet 

Of  song  projected  through  the  morning  blue, 

As  though  some  wondrous  hidden  thing  it  knew. 

And  so  I  gathered  heart,  and  cried  again: 
"0  earth,  make  plain, 
At  this  matutinal  hour, 
The  triumph  and  the  power 
Of  life  eternal  over  death  and  pain, 
Although  it  be  but  by  some  simple  flower!" 
29 


And  then,  with  sudden  light, 

Was  dowered  my  veildd  sight, 

And  I  beheld  in  a  sequestered  place 

A  slender  crocus  show  its  sun-bright  face. 

O  miracle  of  Grace, 

Earth's  Easter  answer  came, 

The  revelation  of  transfiguring  Might, 

In  that  small  crocus  flame! 

Clinton  Scollard 

THE  EARLY  GODS 

It  is  the  time  of  violets. 

It  is  the  very  day 
When  in  the  shadow  of  the  wood 

Spring  shall  have  her  say, 
Remembering  how  the  early  gods 

Came  up  the  violet  way. 

Are  there  not  violets 

And  gods  — 

To-day? 

Witter  Bynner 

A  TULIP  GARDEN 

Guarded  within  the  old  red  wall's  embrace, 
Marshalled  like  soldiers  in  gay  company, 
The  tulips  stand  arrayed.  Here  infantry 

Wheels  out  into  the  sunlight.  What  bold  grace 

30 


Sets  off  their  tunics,  white  with  crimson  lace! 

Here  are  platoons  of  gold-frocked  cavalry, 

With  scarlet  sabres  tossing  in  the  eye 
Of  purple  batteries,  every  gun  in  place. 

Forward  they  come,  with  flaunting  colors  spread, 
With  torches  burning,  stepping  out  in  time 

To  some  quick,  unheard  march.  Our  ears  are  dead, 
We  cannot  catch  the  tune.  In  pantomime 

Parades  the  army.  With  our  utmost  powers 

We  hear  the  wind  stream  through  a  bed  of  flowers. 

Amy  Lowell 

TULIPS 

Brave  little  fellows  in  crimsons  and  yellows, 
Coming  while  breezes  of  April  are  cold, 

Winter  can't  freeze  you,  he  flies  when  he  sees  you 
Thrusting  your  spears  through  the  redolent  mold. 

Jolly  Dutch  flowers,  rejoicing  in  showers, 
Drink!  ere  the  pageant  of  Spring  passes  by! . 

Hold  your  carousals  to  Robin's  espousals, 
Lifting  rich  cups  for  the  wine  of  the  sky! 

Dignified  urbans  in  glossy  silk  turbans, 
Burghcrlike  blossoms  of  gardens  and  squares, 

Nodding  so  solemn  by  fountain  and  column, 
What  is  the  talk  of  your  weighty  affairs? 

31 


Pollen  and  honey  (for  such  is  your  money),  — 
Gossip  and  freight  of  the  chaffering  bee,  — 

Prospects  of  growing,  —  what  colors  are  showing,  - 
News  of  rare  tulips  from  over  the  sea? 

Loitering  near  you,  how  often  I  hear  you, 

Just  ere  your  petals  at  twilight  are  furled, 
Laugh  through  the  grasses  while  Evelyn  passes, 
"There  goes  the  loveliest  flower  in  the  world!" 

Arthur  Guiterman 

A  WHITE  IRIS 

Tall  and  clothed  in  samite, 

Chaste  and  pure, 

In  smooth  armor,  — 

Your  head  held  high 

In  its  helmet 

Of  silver: 

Jean  D'Arc  riding 

Among  the  sword  blades! 

Has  Spring  for  you 
Wrought  visions, 
As  it  did  for  her 
In  a  garden? 

Pauline  B.  Barrington 

32 


MAY  IS  BUILDING  HER  HOUSE 

May  is  building  her  house.  With  apple  blooms 

She  is  roofing  over  the  glimmering  rooms; 

Of  the  oak  and  the  beech  hath  she  builded  its  beams, 

And,  spinning  all  day  at  her  secret  looms, 

With  arras  of  leaves  each  wind-swayed  wall 

She  pictureth  over,  and  peopleth  it  all 

With  echoes  and  dreams, 

And  singing  of  streams. 

May  is  building  her  house  of  petal  and  blade; 
Of  the  roots  of  the  oak  is  the  flooring  made, 

With  a  carpet  of  mosses  and  lichen  and  clover, 

Each  small  miracle  over  and  over, 
And  tender,  travelling  green  things  strayed. 

Her  windows  the  morning  and  evening  star, 
And  her  rustling  doorways,  ever  ajar 

With  the  coming  and  going 

Of  fair  things  blowing, 
The  thresholds  of  the  four  winds  are. 

May  is  building  her  house.  From  the  dust  of  things 
She  is  making  the  songs  and  the  flowers  and  the  wings; 
From  October's  tossed  and  trodden  gold 
She  is  making  the  young  year  out  of  the  old; 

33 


Yea!  out  of  winter's  flying  sleet 
She  is  making  all  the  summer  sweet, 
And  the  brown  leaves  spurned  of  November's  feet 
She  is  changing  back  again  to  spring's. 

Richard  Le  Gallienne 

THE  MAGNOLIA 

Deep  in  the  wood,  of  scent  and  song  the  daughter, 

Perfect  and  bright  is  the  magnolia  born; 
White  as  a  flake  of  foam  upon  still  water, 

White  as  soft  fleece  upon  rough  brambles  torn. 

Hers  is  a  cup  a  workman  might  have  fashioned 

Of  Grecian  marble  in  an  age  remote. 
Hers  is  a  beauty  perfect  and  impassioned, 

As  when  a  woman  bares  her  rounded  throat. 

There  is  a  tale  of  how  the  moon,  her  lover, 
Holds  her  enchanted  by  some  magic  spell; 

Something  about  a  dove  that  broods  above  her, 
Or  dies  within  her  breast  —  I  cannot  tell. 

I  cannot  say  where  I  have  heard  the  story, 
Upon  what  poet's  lips;  but  this  I  know: 
Her  heart  is  like  a  pearl's,  or  like  the  glory 
Of  moonbeams  frozen  on  the  spotless  snow. 

Jos£  Santos  Chocano 
(Translated  by  John  Pierrepont  Rice) 
34 


"GO  DOWN  TO  KEW  IN  LILAC-TIME" 

Go  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time; 

Go  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  (it  is  n't  far  from  London!) 
And  you  shall  wander  hand  in  hand  with  love  in  summer's  won- 
derland; 

Go  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  (it  is  n't  far  from  London!). 

The  cherry-trees  are  seas  of  bloom  and  soft  perfume  and  sweet 
perfume, 
The  cherry-trees  are  seas  of  bloom  (and  oh,  so  near  to  Lon- 
don!) 
And  there  they  say,  when  dawn  is  high  and  all  the  world's  a 
blaze  of  sky 
The  cuckoo,  though  he's  very  shy,  will  sing  a  song  for  London. 

The  Dorian  nightingale  is  rare,  and  yet  they  say  you'll  hear  him 
there 

At  Kew,  at  Kew  in  lilac-time  (and  oh,  so  near  to  London!) 
The  linnet  and  the  throstle,  too,  and  after  dark  the  long  halloo 

And  golden-eyed  tu-whit,  tu-whoo  of  owls  that  ogle  London. 

For  Noah  hardly  knew  a  bird  of  any  kind  that  is  n't  heard 

At  Kew,  at  Kew  in  lilac-time  (and  oh,  so  near  to  London!) 
And  when  the  rose  begins  to  pout  and  all  the  chestnut  spires  are 
out 
You'll  hear  the  rest  without  a  doubt,  all  chorussing  for  Lon- 
don: — 

35 


Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time  ; 
Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  (it  is  n't  far  from  London !) 
And  you  shall  wander  hand  in  hand  with  love  in  summer's  won- 
derland ; 
Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  (it  is  n't  far  from  London !). 

Alfred  Noyes 

BEYOND 

I  wonder  if  the  tides  of  Spring 
Will  always  bring  me  back  again 

Mute  rapture  at  the  simple  thing 
Of  lilacs  blowing  in  the  rain. 

If  so,  my  heart  will  ever  be 

Above  all  fear,  for  I  shall  know 
There  is  a  greater  mystery 

Beyond  the  time  when  lilacs  blow. 

Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr. 

JUNE 

I  knew  that  you  were  coming,  June,  I  knew  that  you  were  com- 
ing! 

Among  the  alders  by  the  stream  I  heard  a  partridge  drum- 
ming; 

I  heard  a  partridge  drumming,  June,  a  welcome  with  his  wings, 

And  felt  a  softness  in  the  air  half  Summer's  and  half  Spring's. 

36 


I  knew  that  you  were  nearing,  June,   I  knew  that  you  were 

nearing  — 
I  saw  it  in  the  bursting  buds  of  roses  in  the  clearing; 
The  roses  in  the  clearing,  June,  were  blushing  pink  and  red, 
For  they  had  heard  upon  the  hills  the  echo  of  your  tread. 

I  knew  that  you  were  coming,  June,  I  knew  that  you  were  coming, 
For  ev'ry  warbler  in  the  wood  a  song  of  joy  was  humming. 
I  know  that  you  are  here,  June,  I  know  that  you  are  here  — 
The  fairy  month,  the  merry  month,  the  laughter  of  the  year! 

Douglas  Malloch 

JUNE  RAPTURE 

Green!  What  a  world  of  green!  My  startled  soul 
Panting  for  beauty  long  denied, 
Leaps  in  a  passion  of  high  gratitude 
To  meet  the  wild  embraces  of  the  wood; 
Rushes  and  flings  itself  upon  the  whole 
Mad  miracle  of  green,  with  senses  wide, 
Clings  to  the  glory,  hugs  and  holds  it  fast, 
As  one  who  finds  a  long-lost  love  at  last. 
Billows  of  green  that  break  upon  the  sight 
In  bounteous  crescendos  of  delight, 
Wind-hurried  verdure  hastening  up  the  hills 
To  where  the  sun  its  highest  rapture  spills; 
Cascades  of  color  tumbling  down  the  height 
In  golden  gushes  of  delicious  light  — 

37 

4/7^6 


God!  Can  I  bear  the  beauty  of  this  day, 
Or  shall  I  be  swept  utterly  away? 

Hush  —  here  are  deeps  of  green,  where  rapture  stills, 
Sheathing  itself  in  veils  of  amber  dusk; 
Breathing  a  silence  suffocating,  sweet, 
Wherein  a  million  hidden  pulses  beat. 
Look!  How  the  very  air  takes  fire  and  thrills 
With  hint  of  heaven  pushing  through  her  husk. 
Ah,  joy's  not  stopped!  'T  is  only  more  intense, 
Here  where  Creation's  ardors  all  condense; 
Here  where  I  crush  me  to  the  radiant  sod, 
Close-folded  to  the  very  nerves  of  God. 
See  now  —  I  hold  my  heart  against  this  tree. 
The  life  that  thrills  its  trembling  leaves  thrills  me. 
There's  not  a  pleasure  pulsing  through  its  veins 
That  does  not  sting  me  with  ecstatic  pains. 
No  twig  or  tracery,  however  fine, 
Can  bear  a  tale  of  joy  exceeding  mine. 

Praised  be  the  gods  that  made  my  spirit  mad; 
Kept  me  aflame  and  raw  to  beauty's  touch. 
Lashed  me  and  scourged  me  with  the  whip  of  fate; 
Gave  me  so  often  agony  for  mate; 
Tore  from  my  heart  the  things  that  make  men  glad  — 
Praised  be  the  gods!  If  I  at  last,  by  such 
Relentless  means  may  know  the  sacred  bliss, 
The  anguished  rapture  of  an  hour  like  this. 

88 


Smite  me,  0  Life,  and  bruise  me  if  thou  must; 
Mock  me  and  starve  me  with  thy  bitter  crust, 
But  keep  me  thus  aquiver  and  awake, 
Enamoured  of  my  life  for  living's  sake! 
This  were  the  tragedy  —  that  I  should  pass, 
Dull  and  indifferent  through  the  glowing  grass. 
And  this  the  reason  I  was  born,  I  say  — 
That  I  might  know  the  passion  of  this  day! 

Angela  Morgan 

COLUMBINES 

Late  were  we  sleeping 

Deep  in  the  mold, 
Clasping  and  keeping 
Yesterday's  gold  — 
Hoardings  of  sunshine, 
Crimson  and  gold; 
Dreaming  of  light  till  our  dream  became 
Aureate  bells  and  beakers  of  flame,  — 
Splashed  with  the  splendor  of  wine  of  flame. 
Raindrop  awoke  us; 
Zephyr  bespoke  us; 
Chick-a-dee  called  us, 
Bobolink  called  us,  — 
Then  we  came. 

Arthur  Guiterman 

39 


THE  MORNING-GLORY 

Was  it  worth  while  to  paint  so  fair 
Thy  every  leaf  —  to  vein  with  faultless  art 

Each  petal,  taking  the  boon  light  and  air 
Of  summer  so  to  heart? 

To  bring  thy  beauty  unto  perfect  flower, 
Then,  like  a  passing  fragrance  or  a  smile, 

Vanish  away,  beyond  recovery's  power  — 
Was  it,  frail  bloom,  worth  while? 

Thy  silence  answers:  "Life  was  mine! 

And  I,  who  pass  without  regret  or  grief, 
Have  cared  the  more  to  make  my  moment  fine, 

Because  it  was  so  brief. 

"In  its  first  radiance  I  have  seen 

The  sun!  —  why  tarry  then  till  comes  the  night? 
I  go  my  way,  content  that  I  have  been 
Part  of  the  morning  light!" 

Florence  Earle  Coates 

THE  BLOSSOMY  BARROW 

Antonio  Sarto  ees  buildin'  a  wall, 
But  maybe  he  newa  gon'  feenish  at  all. 

Eet  sure  wonta  be 

Teell  flower  an'  tree 
An'  all  kinda  growin'  theengs  sleep  een  da  Fall. 
40 


You  see,  deesa  Tonio  always  ees  want' 

To  leeve  on  a  farm,  so  he  buy  wan  las'  mont'. 

I  s'posa  som'  day  eet  be  verra  nice  place, 

But  shape  dat  he  find  eet  een  sure  ees  "deesgrace"; 

Eet's  busta  so  bad  he  must  feexin'  eet  all, 

An'  firs'  theeng  he  starta  for  build  ees  da  wall. 

Mysal'  I  go  outa  for  see  heem  wan  day, 

An'  dere  I  am  catcha  heem  sweatin'  away; 

He's  liftin'  beeg  stones  from  all  parts  of  hees  land 

An'  takin'  dem  up  to  da  wall  een  hees  hand! 

I  say  to  heem:  "Tony,  why  don'ta  you  gat 

Som'  leetla  wheel-barrow  for  halp  you  weeth  dat?" 

"0!  com'  an'  I  show  you  w'at's  matter,"  he  said, 

An'  so  we  go  look  at  hees  tools  een  da  shed. 

Dere 's  fina  beeg  wheel-barrow  dere  on  da  floor, 

But  w'at  do  you  s'pose?  From  een  under  da  door, 

Som'  mornin'-glor'  vines  have  creep  eento  da  shed, 

An'  beautiful  flower,  all  purpla  an'  red, 

Smile  out  from  da  vina  so  pretty  an'  green 

Dat  tweest  round  da  wheel  an'  da  sides  da  machine. 

I  look  at  dees  Tony  an'  say  to  heem:  "Wal?" 

An'  Tony  he  look  back  at  me  an'  say:  "Hal! 

I  no  can  bust  up  soocha  beautiful  theeng; 

I  work  weeth  my  han's  eef  eet  tak'  me  teell  spreeng!" 

Antonio  Sarto  ees  buildin'  a  wall, 
But  maybe  he  newa  gon'  feenish  at  all. 

41 


Eet  sure  wonta  be 
Tcell  flower  an'  tree 
An'  all  kinda  growin'  theengs  sleep  een  da  Fall. 

T.  A.  Daly 


LARKSPUR 

Blue  morning  and  the  beloved, 
The  hill-garden  and  I  .  .  . 

Blue  morning  and  the  beloved, 
Leaning,  laughing  and  plucking, 
Plucking  wet  roses  .  . . 

(She  among  the  roses, 

I  among  the  larkspur, 

Bob-white,  warbler,  meadowlark,  bobolink, 

Song,  sun, 

And  still  morning  air.) 

I  snipped  off  a  larkspur  blossom  of  china-blue 

And  held  it, 

A  blossom  against  the  sky  .  . . 

And  heaven  opened  out 
In  one  small  flower-face  .  . . 

42 


And  the  beloved, 

Plucking  roses,  plucking  roses,  old-fashioned  roses, 

Lifted  her  face 

With  eyes  of  china-blue. 

(She  among  the  roses, 

I  among  the  larkspur, 

Bee-hum,  brown-mole,  downy  chick,  humming-bird: 

Light,  dew, 

And  laughter  of  my  love.) 

James  Oppenheim 

THE  JULY  GARDEN 

It's  July  in  my  garden;  and  steel-blue  are  the  globe  thistles 
And  French  grey  the  willows  that  bow  to  every  breeze; 

And  deep  in  every  currant  bush  a  robber  blackbird  whistles 
"I'm  picking,  I'm  picking,  I'm  picking  these!" 

So  off  I  go  to  rout  them,  and  find  instead  I  'm  gazing 
At  clusters  of  delphiniums  —  the  seed  was  small  and  brown, 

But  these  are  spurs  that  fell  from  heaven  and  caught  the  most 
amazing 
Colours  of  the  welkin's  own  as  they  came  hustling  down. 

And  then  some  roses  catch  my  eye,  or  may  be  some  Sweet 
Williams 
Or  pink  and  white  and  purple  peals  of  Canterbury  bells 

43 


Or  pencilled  Violas  tluvt  peep  between  the  three-leaved  trilliums 
Or  red-hot  pokers  all  aglow  or  poppies  that  cast  spells  — 

And  while  I  stare  at  each  in  turn  I  quite  forget  or  pardon 
The  blackbirds  —  and  the  blackguards  — that  keep  robbing 
me  of  pie; 
For  what  do  such  things  matter  when  I  have  so  fair  a  garden 
And  what  is  half  so  lovely  as  my  garden  in  July? 

Robert  Ernest  Vernede 

"MID-SUMMER  BLOOMS  WITHIN  OUR  QUIET 
GARDEN-WAYS" 

Mid-summer  blooms  within  our  quiet  garden-ways; 
A  golden  peacock  down  the  dusky  alley  strays; 

Gay  flower  petals  strew 

—  Pearl,  emerald  and  blue  — 
The  curving  slopes  of  fragrant  summer  grass; 

The  pools  are  clear  as  glass 
Between  the  white  cups  of  the  lily-flowers; 
The  currants  are  like  jewelled  fairy-bowers; 
A  dazzling  insect  worries  the  heart  of  a  rose, 
Where  a  delicate  fern  a  filmy  shadow  throws, 
And  airy  as  bubbles  the  thousands  of  bees 
Over  the  young  grape-clusters  swarm  as  they  please. 

The  air  is  pearly,  iridescent,  pure; 
These  profound  and  radiant  noons  mature, 

44 


Unfolding  even  as  odorous  roses  of  clear  light; 

Familiar  roads  to  distances  invite 
Like  slow  and  graceful  gestures,  one  by  one 
Bound  for  the  pearly-hued  horizon  and  the  sun. 

Surely  the  summer  clothes,  with  all  her  arts, 
No  other  garden  with  such  grace  and  power; 
And  't  is  the  poignant  joy  close-folded  in  our  hearts 
That  cries  its  life  aloud  from  every  flaming  flower. 

Emile  Verhaeren 

POPPIES 

0  perfect  flowers  of  sweet  midsummer  days, 

The  season's  emblems  ye, 

As  nodding  lazily 
Ye  kiss  to  sleep  each  breeze  that  near  you  strays, 

And  soothe  the  tired  gazer's  sense 
With  lulling  surges  of  your  softest  somnolence. 

Like  fairy  lamps  ye  light  the  garden  bed 

With  tender  ruby  glow. 

Not  any  flowers  that  blow 
Can  match  the  glory  of  your  gleaming  red; 

Such  sunny-warm  and  dreamy  hue 
Before  ye  lit  your  fires  no  garden  ever  knew. 

Bright  are  the  blossoms  of  the  scarlet  sage, 
And  bright  the  velvet  vest 
45 


On  the  nasturtium's  breast; 
Bright  are  the  tulips  when  they  reddest  rage, 

And  bright  the  coreopsis'  eye;  — 
But  none  of  all  can  with  your  brilliant  beauty  vie. 

O  soft  and  slumberous  flowers,  we  love  you  well; 

Your  glorious  crimson  tide 

The  mossy  walk  beside 
Holds  all  the  garden  in  its  drowsy  spell; 

And  walking  there  we  gladly  bless 
Your  queenly  grace  and  all  your  languorous  loveliness. 

John  Russell  Hayes 


THE  GARDEN  IN  AUGUST 

From  corn-crib  by  the  level  pasture-lands 
To  knoll  where  spruce  and  boulders  hide  the  road 
I  know  it  like  a  book,  and  when  my  heart 
Is  waste  and  dry  and  hard  and  choked  with  weeds, 
I  come  here  till  it  gently  blooms  again. 
For  gardens  yield  rich  fruits  that  will  outlast 
The  autumn  and  the  winter  of  the  soul, 
Richest  to  him  who  toils  with  loving  hands. 
'T  is  delving  thus  we  learn  life's  secrets  told 
But  to  those  favored  few  who  dig  for  them. 
The  Garden  is  an  intimate  and  keeps 
In  touch  with  us,  yet  hath  its  own  high  moods, 

46 


And  doth  impose  them  on  the  mind  of  man 
To  shame  his  pettiness.  So  do  I  love 
Its  shimmering  August  mood  keyed  to  the  sun, 
A  harlequin  of  color,  birds  and  bloom. 
Nasturtiums,  zinnias,  balsams,  salvias  blaze 
By  vivid  dahlias;  tiger-lilies  burn 
In  scarlet  shadow  of  Jerusalem-cross; 
Beyond  the  queen-hydrangeas  splendid  rule 
Barbaric  marigolds;  chrysanthemums 
Outshine  gladioli,  and  sunflowers  flaunt 
Their  crests  of  gold  beneath  the  giant  gourds. 
Within  the  arbor,  script  forgot,  I  muse, 
While  gorgeous  hollyhocks  sway  to  and  fro 
To  mark  the  silences,  and  butterflies 
Flit  in  and  out  like  some  bright  memory, 
And  blinding  poppies  kindle  slow  watch-fires 
Before  the  golden  altar  of  the  sun. 

A  spell  lies  on  the  Garden.  Summer  sits 
With  finger  on  her  lips  as  if  she  heard 
The  steps  of  Autumn  echo  on  the  hill. 
A  hush  lies  on  the  Garden.  Summer  dreams 
Of  timid  crocus  thrust  through  drifted  snow. 

Gertrude  Huntington  McGiffert 


47 


BUN,  CARDINAL,  AND  CORN  FLOWERS 

Whence  gets  Earth  her  gold  for  thee, 
O  Sunflower  ? 

Her  woven,  yellow  locks  so  fine 
Must  go  to  make  that  gold  of  thine. 

And  whence  thy  red  beside  the  stream, 
O  Cardinal-flower? 

She  pricks  some  vein  lies  near  her  heart 
That  thy  rich,  ruddy  hue  may  start. 

And  whence  thy  blue  amid  the  corn, 
O  Corn-flower? 

Her  deep-blue  eyes  gleam  out  in  glee, 
The  glories  of  her  work  to  see. 

Hannah  Parker  Kimball 

SUNFLOWERS 

My  tall  sunflowers  love  the  sun, 
Love  the  burning  August  noons 

When  the  locust  tunes  its  viol, 
And  the  cricket  croons. 

When  the  purple  night  draws  on, 
With  its  planets  hung  on  high, 

And  the  attared  winds  of  slumber 
Wander  down  the  sky, 
48 


Still  my  sunflowers  love  the  sun, 

Keep  their  ward  and  watch  and  wait 

Till  the  rosy  key  of  morning 
Opes  the  eastern  gate. 

Then,  when  they  have  deeply  quaffed 

From  the  brimming  cups  of  dew, 
You  can  hear  their  golden  laughter 

All  the  garden  through. 

GlINTON  SCOLLARD 


THE  END  OF  SUMMER      ^ 

When  poppies  in  the  garden  bleed, 
And  coreopsis  goes  to  seed, 
And  pansies,  blossoming  past  their  prime, 
Grow  small  and  smaller  all  the  time, 
When  on  the  mown  field,  shrunk  and  dry, 
Brown  dock  and  purple  thistle  he, 
And  smoke  from  forest  fires  at  noon 
Can  make  the  sun  appear  the  moon, 
When  apple  seeds,  all  white  before, 
Begin  to  darken  in  the  core, 
I  know  that  summer,  scarcely  here, 
Is  gone  until  another  year. 

Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay 


49 


A  LATE  WALK 

When  I  go  up  tlirough  the  mowing  field, 

The  headless  aftermath, 
Smooth-laid  like  thatch  with  the  heavy  dew, 

Half  closes  the  garden  path. 

And  when  I  come  to  the  garden  ground, 

The  whir  of  sober  birds 
Up  from  the  tangle  of  the  withered  weeds 

Is  sadder  than  any  words. 

A  tree  beside  the  wall  stands  bare, 
But  a  leaf  that  lingered  brown, 

Disturbed,  I  doubt  not,  by  my  thought, 
Comes  softly  rustling  down. 

I  end  not  far  from  my  going  forth 

By  picking  the  faded  blue 
Of  the  last  remaining  aster  flower 

To  carry  again  to  you. 


Robert  Feost 


COLOR  NOTES 

The  brown  of  fallen  leaves, 
The  duller  brown 
Of  withered  moss 

Stubble  and  bared  sheaves, 
50 


And  pale  light  filtering  down 
The  fields  across. 

The  gray  of  slender  trees, 
The  softer  gray 
Of  melting  skies. 
What  sobering  ecstasies 
One  drinks  on  such  a  day 
With  chastened  eyes! 

Charles  Wharton  Stork 


THE  GOLDEN  BOWL 

I  stand  upon  the  broad  and  rounded  summit 

Of  a  high  hill 

In  the  full  golden  flood  of  an  October  day 

Nearing  to  twilight. 

Below  lie  bouquets  of  woods,  flat  fields, 

White  strings  of  roads  winding  like  fairy  tales  into 

the  distance, 
All  steeped  in  sapphire  mist  like  the  blue  bloom  of  grapes. 
Nearby  a  scarlet  creeper  trails  a  fence, 
Nearer  a  hawthorn  tree 

Drops  its  wee  crimson  apples  into  the  lush  green  grass. 
I  stand  with  head  thrown  back, 
Seeing  and  breathing  deep, 
My  arms  stretched  out,  in  my  two  hands 

51 


I  hold  a  golden  bowl. 

Luscious  fruits  fulfil  tho  yellow  lustre  of  its  hollow  sphere, 

Fruits  like  great  gems, 

A  pear  of  russet  topaz,  a  ruby  peach, 

A  cluster  of  grapes  — 

Amethysts  from  the  dewy  cave  of  night  — 

A  sapphire  plum,  a  garnet  apple,  emerald  nectarine, 

And  on  them  lies  a  rose. 

Oh,  empty  golden  bowl  I  call  my  soul, 

Filled  now  with  the  precious  fruits  of  life  and  time, 

Topped  with  the  rosy  spray  of  grace, 

A  rose, 

As  though  dropped  to  me  from  the  sky  above, 

A  crowning  thing, 

Love, 

I  lift  and  hold  you  out, 

An  offering, 

And  close  my  eyes. 

Mary  McMillan 


THE  AUTUMN  ROSE 

A  Ghostly  visitant,  pale  Autumn  Rose, 
Haunting  my  garden  that  you  once  loved  well: 
Ah,  how  you  queened  it  ere  the  sweet  June's  close, 
And  blushed  anew  to  hear  the  zephyrs  tell 

52 


Your  loveliness  was  fairer  than  a  dream! 
But  now  your  pride  of  beauty  is  all  gone, 
And  like  some  poor  sad  penitent  you  seem, 
Whose  drooping  head  but  hides  a  visage  wan 
And  wasted  by  the  coldness  of  the  world. 
Upon  your  faint  sweet  breath  is  borne  a  sigh, 
Within  your  petals  lies  a  tear  impearled; 
I  hear  you  to  my  garden  say  good-bye. 

A  sudden  wind  —  the  pale  rose-petals  blow 
Hither  and  yon  —  or  are  they  flakes  of  snow? 

Antoinette  De  Coursey  Patterson 

INDIAN  SUMMER 

Lyric  night  of  the  lingering  Indian  Summer, 
Shadowy  fields  that  are  scentless  but  full  of  singing, 
Never  a  bird,  but  the  passionless  chant  of  insects, 
Ceaseless,  insistent. 

The  grasshopper's  horn,  and  far  off,  high  in  the  maples 
The  wheel  of  a  locust  leisurely  grinding  the  silence, 
Under  the  moon  waning  and  worn  and  broken, 
Tired  with  summer. 

Let  me  remember  you,  voices  of  little  insects, 
Weeds  in  the  moonlight,  fields  that  are  tangled  with  asters, 
Let  me  remember  you,  soon  will  the  winter  be  on  us, 
Snow-hushed  and  heartless. 

53 


Over  my  soul  murmur  your  mute  benediction, 

While  I  gaze,  oh  fields  that  rest  after  harvest, 

As  those  who  part  look  long  in  the  eyes  they  lean  to, 

Lest  they  forget  them. 

Sara  Teasdale 


"FROST  TO-NIGHT" 

Apple-green  west  and  an  orange  bar, 

And  the  crystal  eye  of  a  lone,  one  star  .  .  . 

And,  "Child,  take  the  shears  and  cut  what  you  will. 

Frost  to-night  —  so  clear  and  dead-still." 

Then,  I  sally  forth,  half  sad,  half  proud, 
And  I  come  to  the  velvet,  imperial  crowd, 
The  wine-red,  the  gold,  the  crimson,  the  pied,  — 
The  dahlias  that  reign  by  the  garden-side. 

The  dahlias  I  might  not  touch  till  to-night  1 
A  gleam  of  the  shears  in  the  fading  light, 
And  I  gathered  them  all,  —  the  splendid  throng, 
And  in  one  great  sheaf  I  bore  them  along. 

In  my  garden  of  Life  with  its  all-late  flowers 
I  heed  a  Voice  in  the  shrinking  hours: 
'  Frost  to-night  —  so  clear  and  dead-still .  .  ." 
Half  sad,  half  proud,  my  arms  I  fill. 

Edith  M.  Thomas 

54 


NOVEMBER  NIGHT 

Listen  .  .  . 

With  faint  dry  sound, 

Like  steps  of  passing  ghosts, 

The  leaves,  frost-crisp'd,  break  from  the  trees 

And  fall. 

Adelaide  Crapset 


THE  SNOW-GARDENS 

T/rerc  an  empty  stage 
The  gardens  are  empty  and  cold; 
The  marble  terraces  rise 
Like  vases  that  hold  no  flowers; 
The  lake  is  frozen,  the  fountain  still; 
The  marble  walls  and  the  seats 
Are  useless  and  beautiful. 
Ah,  here 

Where  the  wind  and  the  dusk  and  the  snow  are 
All  is  silent  and  white  and  sad! 
Why  do  I  think  of  you? 
Why  does  your  name  remorselessly 
Strike  through  my  heart? 
Why  does  my  soul  awaken  and  shudder? 
Why  do  I  seem  to  hear 
Cries  as  lovely  as  music? 
55 


Surely  you  never  came 

Into  these  pale  snow-gardens; 

Surely  you  never  stood 

Here  in  the  twilight  with  me; 

Yet  here  I  have  lingered  and  dreamed 

Of  a  face  as  subtle  as  music, 

Of  golden  hair,  and  of  eyes 

Like  a  child's  .  .  . 

I  have  felt  on  my  brow 

Your  finger-tips,  plaintive  as  music  .  .  . 

O  Wonder  of  all  wonders,  O  Love  — 

Wrought  of  sweet  sounds  and  of  dreaming! 

Why  do  you  not  emerge 

From  the  lilac  pale  petals  of  dusk, 

And  come  to  me  here  in  the  gardens 

Where  the  wind  and  the  snow  are? 

Beauty  and  Peace  are  here  — 
And  unceasing  music  — 
And  a  loneliness  chill  and  wistful, 
Like  the  feeling  of  death. 

Like  a  crystal  lily  a  star 
Leans  from  its  leaves  of  silver 
And  gleams  in  the  sky; 
And  golden  and  faint  in  the  shadows 
You  wait  indistinctly,  — 
56 


Like  a  phantom  lamp  that  appears 

In  the  mirror  of  distance  that  hovers 

By  the  window  at  twilight  — 

You  have  come  —  and  we  stand  together, 

With  questioning  eyes  — 

Dreaming  and  cold  and  ghostly 

In  an  empty  garden  that  seems 

Like  an  empty  stage. 


Zoe  Akins 


A  SONG  FOR  WINTER 

Speak  not  of  snow  and  cold  and  rime 

Now  they  prevail. 
Would  you  have  joy  in  winter-time, 

Think  of  the  pale 
New  green  that  comes,  of  blossoming  lilacs  think, 
Larkspur,  and  borders  of  the  fringed  pink. 
And  sing,  if  winter  grants  you  heart  to  sing, 

Of  summer  and  of  spring. 

Would  you  secure  some  happiness 

In  frosty  hours, 
Trust  to  the  eye  external  less 

Than  to  the  powers 
Of  inward  sight  that  even  now  may  show 
Opaline  seas,  blue  hilltops,  and  the  glow 

57 


Of  daybreak  on  the  glades  where  thrushes  sing 
In  summer  and  in  spring. 

Gaze  not  on  fettered  lake  and  brook 

And  sullen  skies, 
But  in  your  happy  memory  look 

Where  beauty  lies 
As  once  it  was,  as  it  shall  be  again 
When  sunshine  floods  the  fields  of  blowing  grain, 
And  sing,  as  must  who  would  in  winter  sing, 

Of  summer  and  of  spring. 

Mrs.  Schuyler  Van  Rensselaer 


WINGS  AND  SONG 


"I  MEANT  TO  DO  MY  WORK  TO-DAY" 

/  meant  to  do  my  work  to-day  — 

But  a  brown  bird  sang  in  the  apple-tree 

And  a  butterfly  flitted  across  the  field, 
And  all  the  leaves  were  calling  me. 

And  the  wind  went  sighing  over  the  land, 

Tossing  the  grasses  to  and  fro, 
And  a  rainbow  held  out  its  shining  hand  — 

So  what  could  I  do  but  laugh  and  go  ? 

RlCHABD  LE  GaLLIENNE 


THE  HUMMINGBIRD 

Through  tree-top  and  clover  a- whirr  and  awayl 
Hi!  little  rover,  stop  and  stay. 

Merry,  absurd,  excited  wag  — 
Lilliput-bird  in  Brobdingnag! 

Wild  and  free  as  the  wild  thrush,  and  warier  — 
Was  ever  a  bee  merrier,  airier? 

Wings  folded  so,  a  second  or  two  — 
Was  ever  a  crow  more  solemn  than  you? 

A-whirr  again  over  the  garden,  away! 
Who  calls,  little  rover,  Bird  or  fay? 

Agleam  and  aglow,  incarnate  bliss! 
What  do  you  know  that  we  humans  miss? 

In  the  lily's  chalice,  what  rune,  what  spell, 
In  the  rose's  palace,  what  do  they  tell 

(When  the  door  you  bob  in,  airily) 
That  they  hush  from  the  robin,  hide  from  the  bee? 

61 


Fearing  the  crew  of  chatter  and  song, 
And  tell  to  you  of  the  chantlcss  tongue? 

Chantless!  Ah,  yes.  Is  that  the  sting 
Masked  in  gay  dress  and  whirring  wing? 

Faith!  But  a  wing  of  such  airy  stuff! 
What  need  to  sing?  Here's  music  enough. 

A-whirr,  and  over  tree-top,  and  through! 
Hi!  little  rover,  fair  travel  to  you. 

Sweet,  absurd,  excited  wag  — 
Lilliput-bird  in  Brobdingnag! 

Hermann  Hagedorn 

SPRING  SONG 

Softly  at  dawn  a  whisper  stole 

Down  from  the  Green  House  on  the  Hill, 

Enchanting  many  a  ghostly  bole 
And  wood  song  with  the  ancient  thrill. 

Gossiping  on  the  countryside, 

Spring  and  the  wandering  breezes  say 
God  has  thrown  heaven  open  wide 
And  let  the  thrushes  out  to-day. 

William  Griffith 
62 


NIGHTINGALES 

At  sunset  my  brown  nightingales 

Hidden  and  hushed  all  day, 

Ring  vespers,  while  the  color  pales ' 

And  fades  to  twilight  gray: 

The  little  mellow  bells  they  ring, 

The  little  flutes  they  play, 

Are  soft  as  though  for  practising 

The  things  they  want  to  say. 

It's  when  the  dark  has  floated  down 

To  hide  and  guard  and  fold, 

I  know  their  throats  that  look  so  brown, 

Are  really  made  of  gold. 

No  music  I  have  ever  heard 

Can  call  as  sweet  as  they! 

I  wonder  if  it  is  a  bird 

That  sings  within  the  hidden  tree, 

Or  some  shy  angel  calling  me 

To  follow  far  away? 

Grace  Hazard  Conklino 

THE  GOLDFINCH 

Down  from  the  sky  on  a  sudden  he  drops 
Into  the  mullein  and  juniper  tops, 
Flushed  from  his  bath  in  the  midsummer  shine 
Flooding  the  meadowland,  drunk  with  the  wine 

63 


Spilled  from  the  urns  of  the  blue,  like  a  bold 
Sky-buccaneer  in  his  sable  and  gold. 

Lightly  he  sways  on  the  pendulous  stem, 
Vividly  restless,  a  fluttering  gem, 
Then  with  a  flash  of  bewildering  wings 
Dazzles  away  up  and  down,  and  he  sings 
Clear  as  a  bell  at  each  dip  as  he  flies 
Bounding  along  on  the  wave  of  the  skies. 

Sunlight  and  laughter,  a  winged  desire, 
Motion  and  melody  married  to  fire, 
Lighter  than  thistle-tuft  borne  on  the  wind, 
Frailer  than  violets,  how  shall  we  find 
Words  that  will  match  him,  discover  a  name 
Meet  for  this  marvel,  this  lyrical  flame? 

How  shall  we  fashion  a  rhythm  to  wing  with  him, 
Find  us  a  wonderful  music  to  sing  with  him 
Fine  as  his  rapture  is,  free  as  the  rollicking 
Song  that  the  harlequin  drops  in  his  frolicking 
Dance  through  the  summer  sky,  singing  so  merrily 
High  in  the  burning  blue,  winging  so  airily? 

Odell  Shepard 


Gi 


KINFOLK 

O,  we  are  Kinfolk,  she  and  I,  — 

The  little  mother-bird  all  brown, 
Who  broods  above  her  nest  on  high, 

And  with  her  soft,  bright  eyes  looks  down 
To  read  the  secret  of  my  heart,  — 
We  two  from  all  the  world  apart! 

She  dreams  there  in  her  swaying  nest; 

I  dream  here  'neath  my  sheltering  vine. 
The  same  love  stirs  her  feathered  breast 

That  makes  my  heart-throb  seem  divine. 
We  both  dream  'neath  the  same  kind  sky,  — 
The  small  brown  mother-bird,  and  I. 

Kate  Whiting  Patch 

A  MOCKING-BIRD 

An  arrow,  feathery,  alive, 

He  darts  and  sings,  — 
Then  with  a  sudden  skimming  dive 

Of  striped  wings 
He  finds  a  pine  and,  debonair, 

Makes  with  his  mate 
All  birds  that  ever  rested  there 

Articulate. 

C5 


The  whisper  of  a  multitude 

Of  happy  wings 
Is  round  him,  a  returning  brood, 

Each  time  he  sings. 
Though  heaven  be  not  for  them  or  him 

Yet  he  is  wise, 
And  daily  tiptoes  on  the  rim 

Of  paradise. 

Witter  Bynner 


THE  CARDINAL-BIRD 

Where  snow-drifts  are  deepest  he  frolics  along, 
A  flicker  of  crimson,  a  chirrup  of  song, 
My  Cardinal-Bird  of  the  frost-powdered  wing, 
Composing  new  lyrics  to  whistle  in  Spring. 

A  plump  little  prelate,  the  park  is  his  church; 
The  pulpit  he  loves  is  a  cliff -sheltered  birch; 
And  there,  in  his  rubicund  livery  dressed, 
Arranging  his  feathers  and  ruffling  his  crest, 

He  preaches,  with  most  unconventional  glee, 
A  sermon  addressed  to  the  squirrels  and  me, 
Commending  the  wisdom  of  those  that  display 
The  brightest  of  colors  when  heavens  are  gray. 

Arthur  Guiterman 
6G 


YELLOW  WARBLERS  ^ 

The  first  faint  dawn  was  flushing  up  the  skies, 
When,  dreamland  still  bewildering  mine  eyes, 
I  looked  out  to  the  oak  that,  winter-long,  — 
A  winter  wild  with  war  and  woe  and  wrong,  — 
Beyond  my  casement  had  been  void  of  song. 

And  lo!  with  golden  buds  the  twigs  were  set, 
Live  buds  that  warbled  like  a  rivulet 
Beneath  a  veil  of  willows.  Then  I  knew 
Those  tiny  voices,  clear  as  drops  of  dew, 
Those  flying  daffodils  that  fleck  the  blue, 

Those  sparkling  visitants  from  myrtle  isles  — 
Wee  pilgrims  of  the  sun,  that  measured  miles 
Innumerable  over  land  and  sea 
With  wings  of  shining  inches.  Flakes  of  glee, 
They  filled  that  dark  old  oak  with  jubilee, 

Foretelling  in  delicious  roundelays 

Their  dainty  courtships  on  the  dipping  sprays, 

How  they  should  fashion  nests,  mate  helping  mate, 

Of  milkweed  flax  and  fern-down  delicate, 

To  keep  sky-tinted  eggs  inviolate. 

Listening  to  those  blithe  notes,  I  slipped  once  more 
From  lyric  dawn  through  dreamland's  open  door, 

C7 


And  there  was  God,  Eternal  Life  that  sings 
Eternal  joy,  brooding  all  mortal  things, 
A  nest  of  stars,  beneath  untroubled  wings. 

Katharine  Lee  Bates 

WITCHERY 

Out  of  the  purple  drifts, 

From  the  shadow  sea  of  night, 
On  tides  of  musk  a  moth  uplifts 

Its  weary  wings  of  white. 

Is  it  a  dream  or  ghost 

Of  a  dream  that  comes  to  me, 
Here  in  the  twilight  on  the  coast, 

Blue  cinctured  by  the  sea? 

Fashioned  of  foam  and  froth  — 

And  the  dream  is  ended  soon, 
And,  lo,  whence  came  the  moon-white  moth 

Comes  now  the  moth- white  moon! 

Frank  Dempster  Sherman 

THE  SPRING  BEAUTIES 

The  Puritan  Spring  Beauties  stood  freshly  clad  for  church; 
A  Thrush,  white-breasted,  o'er  them  sat  singing  on  his  perch. 
"Happy  be!  for  fair  are  ye!"  the  gentle  singer  told  them, 
But  presently  a  buff-coat  Bee  came  booming  up  to  scold  them. 

68 


"Vanity,  oh,  vanity! 
Young  maids,  beware  of  vanity!" 
Grumbled  out  the  buff-coat  Bee, 
Half  parson-like,  half  soldierly. 


The  sweet-faced  maidens  trembled,  with  pretty,  pinky  blushes, 
Convinced  that  it  was  wicked  to  listen  to  the  Thrushes; 
And  when,  that  shady  afternoon,  I  chanced  that  way  to  pass, 
They  hung  their  little  bonnets  down  and  looked  into  the  grass. 
All  because  the  buff-coat  Bee 
Lectured  them  so  solemnly :  — 
"Vanity,  oh,  vanity! 
Young  maids,  beware  of  vanity!" 

Helen  Gray  Cone 


THE  MOCKING-BIRD 

He  did  n't  know  much  music 

When  first  he  come  along; 
An'  all  the  birds  went  wonderin' 

Why  he  did  n't  sing  a  song. 

They  primped  their  feathers  in  the  sun, 
An'  sung  their  sweetest  notes; 

An'  music  jest  come  on  the  run 
From  all  their  purty  throats! 
69 


But  still  that  bird  was  silent 

In  summer  time  an'  fall; 
He  jest  set  still  and  listened, 

An'  he  would  n't  sing  at  all! 

But  one  night  when  them  songsters 

Was  tired  out  an'  still, 
An'  the  wind  sighed  down  the  valley 

An'  went  creepin'  up  the  hill; 

When  the  stars  was  all  a-tremble 

In  the  dreamin'  fields  o'  blue, 
An'  the  daisy  in  the  darkness  — 

Felt  the  fallin'  o'  the  dew,  — 

There  come  a  sound  o'  melody 

No  mortal  ever  heard, 
An'  all  the  birds  seemed  singin' 

From  the  throat  o'  one  sweet  bird! 

Then  the  other  birds  went  Mayin' 

In  a  land  too  fur  to  call; 
For  there  warn't  no  use  in  stayin' 

When  one  bird  could  sing  for  all! 

Frank  L.  Stanton 


70 


THE  MESSENGER 

Bee!  tell  me  whence  do  you  come? 
Ten  fields  away,  twenty  perhaps, 
Have  heard  your  hum. 

If  you  are  from  the  north,  you  may 
Have  passed  my  mother's  roof  of  straw 
Upon  your  way. 

If  you  came  from  the  south  you  should 
Have  seen  another  cottage  just 
Inside  the  wood. 

And  should  you  go  back  that  way,  please 
Carry  a  message  to  the  house 
Among  the  trees. 

Say  —  I  will  wait  her  at  the  rock 
Beside  the  stream,  this  very  night 
At  eight  o'clock. 

And  ask  your  queen  when  you  get  home 
To  send  my  queen  the  present  of 
A  honey-comb. 

James  Stephens 


71 


FIREFLIES 

Fireflies,  Fireflies,  little  glinting  creatures, 
Making  night  lovely  with  a  rain  of  gold, 

Born  of  the  moonbeams,  children  all  unearthly, 
Ah  how  you  vanish  from  a  look  too  bold! 

Fireflies,  Fireflies,  lovely  as  our  dreams  are, 
Sewn  with  such  fancies  from  the  years  gone  by, 

Wayward,  elusive,  as  the  playful  zephyrs, 
Hiding  mid  grasses,  gleaming  in  the  sky. 

Fireflies,  Fireflies,  like  unto  the  silent 
Brown  nuns  who  gather  for  the  dead  to  pray, 

As  theirs  your  mission;  holy,  too,  your  tapers, 
Souls  of  dead  flowers  lighting  on  their  way. 

Antoinette  De  Coursey  Patterson 

V 

JULY  MIDNIGHT 

Fireflies  flicker  in  the  tops  of  trees, 

Flicker  in  the  lower  branches, 

Skim  along  the  ground. 

Over  the  moon-white  lilies 

Is  a  flashing  and  ceasing  of  small,  lemon-green  stars. 

As  you  lean  against  me, 

Moon-white, 

72 


The  air  all  about  you 

Is  slit,  and  pricked,  and  pointed  with  sparkles  of  lemon-green  flame 

Starting  out  of  a  background  of  great  vague  trees. 

Amy  Lowell 

THE  CRICKET  IN  THE  PATH 

She  passed  through  the  shadowy  garden,  so  tall  and  so  white, 
Her  eyes  on  the  stars  and  her  face  like  an  angel's  upturned, 
And  it  seemed  to  my  thought  that  the  dusk  round  her  head  with 
the  light 

Of  an  aureole  burned. 

But  where  she  had  trodden  unseeing,  I  found  on  the  path 
A  cricket,  so  frail  that  her  light  foot  had  maimed  it,  yet  strong 
To  valiantly  pipe,  tiny  hero,  a  faint  aftermath 
Of  its  yesterday  song. 

And  I  whispered,  "Alas,  Little  Brother,  why  must  it  befall 
That  the  passing  of  angels  but  cripples  and  leaves  us  to  die? 
Poor  imp  of  the  greensward,  God  trumpets  me  clear  in  thy  call; 
Thou  art  braver  than  I. 

"The  Bright  Ones  of  Heaven  have  trodden  me  down  as  they 

passed; 
I  crawl  in  their  footsteps  a  trampled  and  impotent  thing. 
I  know  not  the  reason,  nor  question  henceforth.  To  the  last, 
While  I  live,  I  will  sing." 

Amelia  Josephine  Burr 

73 


REST  AT  NOON 

Now  with  a  re-created  mind 
Back  to  the  world  my  way  I  find; 

Fed  by  the  hills  one  little  hour, 

By  meadow-slope  and  beechen-bower, 

Cedar  serene,  benignant  larch, 
Hoar  mountains  and  the  azure  arch 

Where  dazzling  vapors  make  vast  sport 
In  God's  profound  and  spacious  court. 

The  universe  played  with  me.  Earth 
Harped  to  high  heaven  her  sweetest  mirth; 

The  clouds  built  castles  for  my  pleasure, 
And  airy  legions  without  measure 

Flung,  spindrift-wise,  across  the  sky 
To  thrill  my  heart  once  and  to  die. 

I  have  held  converse  with  large  things; 
For  cherubim  with  cooling  wings 

Brushed  me,  and  gay  stars,  hid  from  view, 
Called  through  the  arras  of  the  blue 

74 


And  clapped  their  hands:  "These  veils  uproll! 
And  see  the  comrades  of  your  soul!" 

The  very  flowers  that  ringed  my  bed 
Their  little  "  God-be-with-you  "  said, 

And  every  insect,  bird  and  bee 
Brought  cool  cups  from  eternity. 

Hermann  Hagedorn 

ORDER 

It  is  half -past  eight  on  the  blossomy  bush: 

The  petals  are  spread  for  a  sunning; 
The  little  gold  fly  is  scrubbing  his  face; 

The  spider  is  nervously  running 
To  fasten  a  thread;  the  night-going  moth 

Is  folding  his  velvet  perfection; 
And  presently  over  the  clover  will  come 

The  bee  on  a  tour  of  inspection. 

Paul  Scott  Mowrer 

THE  NIGHT-MOTH 

My  night-moth,  my  white  moth,  out  of  the  fragrant  dark 
Blowing  in  and  growing  like  a  dim  star-spark, 
So  swift  in  the  shifting  of  your  elfin  wings, 
So  slight  in  your  lighting,  as  a  flower  that  clings, 

75 


As  a  boat  to  ride  the  dew,  with  sheer  up-bearing  sails, 

Pulsing  and  breathing,  rocked  with  delicate  gales,  — 

You  gleam  as  a  dream,  by  my  window's  light, 

My  white  moth,  my  bright  moth,  my  wandering  wraith  of  night. 

From  the  velvet  screening  of  a  great  gray  cloud 
The  moon  floats  swiftly,  white  and  open-browed, 
Flooding  cloud  and  water  with  her  shining  trail, 
Till  the  night  shrinks,  sighing,  behind  the  radiant  veil; 
The  night,  with  her  shy  soul,  to  the  deep  wood  slips  — 
Her  shy  soul,  her  high  soul,  shrine  of  all  the  stars; 
And  you  fly,  like  the  sigh  from  her  tender  lips, 
Athwart  the  wavering  shadows,  beating  the  silver  bars; 
You  fleet  in  the  meeting  of  the  dark  and  bright, 
My  light  moth,  my  white  moth,  spark  from  the  soul  of  night. 

Marion  Couthouy  Smith 

THE  BUTTERFLY 

O  winged  brother  on  the  harebell,  stay  — 
Was  God's  hand  very  pitiful,  the  hand 
That  wrought  thy  beauty  at  a  dream's  demand? 

Yes,  knowing  I  love  so  well  the  flowery  way, 

He  did  not  fling  me  to  the  world  astray  — 
He  did  not  drop  me  to  the  weary  sand, 
But  bore  me  gently  to  a  leafy  land : 

Tinting  my  wings,  He  gave  me  to  the  day. 

70 


Oh,  chide  no  more  my  doubting,  ray  despair! 

I  will  go  back  now  to  the  world  of  men. 
Farewell,  I  leave  thee  to  the  world  of  air, 

Yet  thou  hast  girded  up  my  heart  again; 
For  He  that  framed  the  impenetrable  plan, 

And  keeps  His  word  with  thee,  will  keep  with  man. 

Edwin  Markham 


THE  SECRET 

O,  little  bird,  you  sing 
As  if  all  months  were  June; 
Pray  tell  me  ere  you  go 
The  secret  of  your  tune? 

"I  have  no  hidden  word 
To  tell,  nor  mystic  art; 
I  only  know  I  sing 
The  song  within  my  heart!" 

Arthur  Wallace  Peach 


THE  GARDENS  OF  YESTERDAY 


THE  GARDEN 

Old  gardens  have  a  language  of  their  own, 

And  mine  sweet  speech  to  linger  in  the  heart. 

A  goodly  -place  it  is  and  primly  spaced, 

With  straight  box-bordered  paths  and  squares  of  bloom. 

Bay-trees  by  rows  of  antique  urns  tell  tales 

Of  one  who  loved  the  gardens  Dante  loved. 

Magnolias  edge  the  placid  lily-pool 

And  flank  tlie  sagging  seat,  whence  vista  leads 

To  blaze  of  rhododendrons  banked  in  green. 

Azaleas  by  the  scarlet  quince  flame  up 

Against  the  lustrous  grape-vines  irellised  high 

To  pigeon-cote  and  old  brick  wall  where  hide 

First  snowdrops  and  the  bravest  violets. 

A  place  of  solitudes  whose  silences 

Enfold  the  heart  as  an  unquiet  bird. 

Gertrude  Huntington  McGiffert 


OLD  HOMES 

Old  homes  among  the  hills!  I  love  their  gardens; 
Their  old  rock  fences,  that  our  day  inherits; 
Their  doors,  round  which  the  great  trees  stand  like  wardens; 
Their  paths,  down  which  the  shadows  march  like  spirits; 
Broad  doors  and  paths  that  reach  bird-haunted  gardens. 

I  see  them  gray  among  their  ancient  acres, 
Severe  of  front,  their  gables  lichen-sprinkled,  — 
Like  gentle-hearted,  solitary  Quakers, 
Grave  and  religious,  with  kind  faces  wrinkled,  — 
Serene  among  their  memory-hallowed  acres. 

Their  gardens,  banked  with  roses  and  with  lilies  — 
Those  sweet  aristocrats  of  all  the  flowers  — 
Where  Springtime  mints  her  gold  in  daffodillies, 
And  Autumn  coins  her  marigolds  in  showers, 
And  all  the  hours  are  toilless  as  the  lilies. 

I  love  their  orchards  where  the  gay  woodpecker 
Flits,  flashing  o'er  you,  like  a  wing&d  jewel; 
Their  woods,  whose  floors  of  moss  the  squirrels  checker 
With  half-hulled  nuts;  and  where,  in  cool  renewal, 
The  wild  brooks  laugh,  and  raps  the  red  woodpecker. 

Old  homes!  Old  hearts!  Upon  my  soul  forever 
Their  peace  and  gladness  lie  like  tears  and  laughter; 

81 


Like  love  they  touch  me,  through  the  years  that  sever, 
With  simple  faith;  like  friendship,  draw  me  after 
The  dreamy  patience  that  is  theirs  forever. 

Madison  Cawein 


A  PURITAN  LADY'S  GARDEN 

This  fairy  pleasance  in  the  brake  — 
This  maze  run  wild  of  flower  and  vine  — 

Our  fathers  planted  for  the  sake 
Of  eyes  that  longed  for  English  gardens 
Amid  the  virgin  wastes  of  pine. 

Here,  by  the  broken,  moldering  wall, 
Where  still  the  tiger-lilies  ride, 

Once  grew  the  crown  imperial, 
The  tall  blue  larkspur,  white  Queen  Margaret, 
Prince 's-feather,  and  mourning  bride. 

Beyond  their  pale,  a  humbler  throng, 
Grew  Bouncing  Bet  and  columbine; 

The  mountain  fringe  ran  all  along 

The  thick-set  hedge  of  cinnamon  roses, 

And  overhung  the  eglantine. 

And  Sunday  flowers  were  here  as  well  — 
Adam-and-Eve  within  their  hood, 

82 


The  stately  Canterbury  bell, 
And,  oft  in  churches  breathing  fragrance, 
The  sweet  and  pungent  southernwood. 

When  ships  for  England  cleared  the  bay, 

If  long  beside  these  reefs  of  foam 
She  stood,  and  watched  them  sail  away, 
It  was  her  garden  first  enticed  her 

To  turn,  and  call  this  country  "home." 

Saeah  N.  Cleghorn 


THE  OLD-FASHIONED  GARDEN 

Among  the  meadows  of  the  countryside, 

From  city  noise  and  tumult  far  away, 
Where  clover-blossoms  spread  their  fragrance  wide 

And  birds  are  warbling  all  the  sunny  day, 
There  is  a  spot  which  lovingly  I  prize, 
For  there  a  fair  and  sweet  old-fashioned  country  garden  lies. 

The  gray  old  mansion  down  beside  the  lane 
Stands  knee-deep  in  the  fields  that  lie  around 

And  scent  the  air  with  hay  and  ripening  grain. 
Behind  the  manse  box-hedges  mark  the  bound 
And  close  the  garden  in,  or  nearly  close, 

For  on  beyond  the  hollyhocks  an  olden  orchard  grows. 

83 


So  bright  and  lovely  is  the  dear  old  place, 
It  seems  as  though  the  country's  very  heart 

Were  centered  here,  and  that  its  antique  grace 
Must  ever  hold  it  from  the  world  apart. 

Immured  it  lies  among  the  meadows  deep, 

Its  flowery  stillness  beautiful  and  calm  as  softest  sleep. 

The  morning-glories  ripple  o'er  the  hedge 

And  fleck  its  greenness  with  their  tinted  foam; 

Sweet  wilding  things^up  to  the  garden's  edge 
They  love  to  wander  from  their  meadow  home, 

To  take  what  little  pleasure  here  they  may 

Ere  all  their  silken  trumpets  close  before  the  warm  midday. 

The  larkspur  lifts  on  high  its  azure  spires, 

And  up  the  arbor's  lattices  are  rolled 
The  quaint  nasturtium's  many-colored  fires; 

The  tall  carnation's  breast  of  faded  gold 
Is  striped  with  many  a  faintly-flushing  streak, 
Pale  as  the  tender  tints  that  blush  upon  a  baby's  cheek. 

The  old  sweet-rocket  sheds  its  fine  perfumes, 

With  golden  stars  the  coreopsis  flames, 
And  here  are  scores  of  sweet  old-fashioned  blooms, 

Dear  for  the  very  fragrance  of  their  names,  — 
Poppies  and  gilly  flowers  and  four-o'clocks, 
Cowslips  and  candytuft  and  heliotrope  and  hollyhocks, 

84 


Harebells  and  peonies  and  dragon-head, 

Petunias,  scarlet  sage  and  bergamot, 
Verbenas,  ragged-robins,  soft  gold-thread, 

The  bright  primrose  and  pale  forget-me-not, 
Wall-flowers  and  crocuses  and  columbines, 
Narcissus,  asters,  hyacinths,  and  honeysuckle  vines. 

A  sweet  seclusion  this  of  sun  and  shade, 

A  calm  asylum  from  the  busy  world, 
Where  greed  and  restless  care  do  ne'er  invade, 

Nor  news  of  'change  and  mart  each  morning  hurled 
Round  half  the  globe;  no  noise  of  party  feud 
Disturbs  this  peaceful  spot  nor  mars  its  perfect  quietude. 

But  summer  after  summer  comes  and  goes 
And  leaves  the  garden  ever  fresh  and  fair; 

May  brings  the  tulip,  golden  June  the  rose, 
And  August  winds  shake  down  the  mellow  pear. 

Man  blooms  and  blossoms,  fades  and  disappears,  — 

But  scarce  a  tribute  pays  the  garden  to  the  passing  years. 

Sweet  is  the  odor  of  the  warm,  soft  rain 
In  violet-days  when  spring  opes  her  green  heart; 

And  sweet  the  apple  trees  along  the  lane 
Whose  lovely  blossoms  all  too  soon  depart; 

And  sweet  the  brimming  dew  that  overfills 

The  golden  chalices  of  all  the  trembling  daffodils. 

85 


But.  sweeter  far,  in  this  old  garden-close 

To  loiter  'mid  the  lovely  old-time  flowers, 
To  breathe  the  scent  of  lavender  and  rose, 

And  with  old  poets  pass  the  peaceful  hours. 
Old  gardens  and  old  poets,  —  happy  he 
Whose  quiet  summer  days  are  spent  in  such  sweet 
company! 

John  Russell  Hayes 


A  COLONIAL  GARDEN 

Down  this  pathway,  through  the  shade, 
Lightly  tripped  the  dainty  maid, 
In  her  eyes  the  smile  of  June, 
On  her  lips  some  old  sweet  tune. 
Through  yon  ragged  rows  of  box, 
By  that  awkward  clump  of  phlox, 
To  her  favorite  pansy  bed 
Like  a  ray  of  light,  she  sped. 
Satin  slippers  trim  and  neat 
Gleamed  upon  her  slender  feet; 
Round  her  ankles,  deftly  tied, 
Ribbons  crossed  from  side  to  side, 
Here  her  pinks,  old  fashioned,  fair, 
Breathed  their  fragrance  on  the  air; 
There  her  fluttering  azure  gown 
Shook  the  poppy's  petals  down. 
86 


Here  a  rose,  with  fond  caress, 

Stooped  to  touch  a  truant  tress 

From  her  fillet  struggling  free, 

Scorning  its  captivity. 

There  a  bed  of  rue  was  set 

With  an  edge  of  mignonette, 

And  the  spicy  bergamot 

Meshed  the  frail  forget-me-not. 

Honeysuckles,  hollyhocks, 

Bachelor's  buttons,  four-o'clocks, 

Marigolds  and  blue-eyed  grass 

Curtsied  when  the  maid  did  pass. 

Now  the  braggart  weeds  have  spread 

Through  the  paths  she  loved  to  tread, 

And  the  creeping  moss  has  grown 

O'er  yon  shattered  dial-stone. 

Still  beside  the  ruined  walks 

Some  old  flowers,  on  sturdy  stalks, 

Dream  of  her  whose  happy  eyes 

Roam  the  fields  of  paradise. 

James  B.  Kenton 

IN  MY  MOTHER'S  GARDEN  /- 

There  were  many  flowers  in  my  mother's  garden, 
Sword-leaved  gladiolas,  taller  far  than  I, 
Sticky-leaved  petunias,  pink  and  purple  flaring, 
Velvet-painted  pansies  smiling  at  the  sky; 

87 


Scentless  portulacas  crowded  down  the  borders, 
White  and  scarlet-petalled,  rose  and  satin-gold, 
Clustered  sweet  alyssum,  lacy-white  and  scented, 
Sprays  of  gray-green  lavender  to  keep  'til  you  were  old.' 

In  my  mother's  garden  were  green-leaved  hiding-places, 
Nooks  between  the  lilacs  —  oh,  a  pleasant  place  to  play! 
Still  my  heart  can  hide  there,  still  my  eyes  can  dream  it, 
Though  the  long  years  he  between  and  I  am  far  away; 

When  the  world  is  hard  now,  when  the  city's  clanging 
Tires  my  eyes  and  tires  my  heart  and  dust  lies  everywhere, 
I  can  dream  the  peace  still  of  the  soft  wind's  blowing, 
I  can  be  a  child  still  and  hide  my  heart  from  care. 

Lord,  if  still  that  garden  blossoms  in  the  sunlight, 
Grant  that  children  laugh  there  now  among  its  green  and  gold  - 
Grant  that  little  hearts  still  hide  its  memoried  sweetness, 
Locking  one  bright  dream  away  for  light  when  they  are  old! 

Margaret  Widdemer 


TO  THE  SWEETWILLIAM 

I  search  the  poet's  honied  lines, 
And  not  in  vain,  for  columbines; 
And  not  in  vain  for  other  flowers 
That  sanctify  the  many  bowers 
88 


Unsanctified  by  human  souls. 
See  where  the  larkspur  lifts  among 
The  thousand  blossoms  finely  sung, 
Still  blossoming  in  the  fragrant  scrolls! 
Charity,  eglantine,  and  rue 
And  love-in-a-mist  are  all  in  view, 
With  coloured  cousins;  but  where  are  you, 
Sweetwilliam? 

The  lily  and  the  rose  have  books 
Devoted  to  their  lovely  looks, 
And  wit  has  fallen  in  vital  showers 
Through  England's  most  miraculous  hours 
To  keep  them  fresh  a  thousand  years. 
The  immortal  library  can  show 
The  violet's  well-thumbed  folio 
Stained  tenderly  by  girls  in  tears. 
The  shelf  where  Genius  stands  in  view 
Has  brier  and  daffodil  and  rue 
And  love-lies-bleeding;  but  not  you, 
Sweetwilliam. 

Thus,  if  I  seek  the  classic  line 
For  marybuds,  'tis,  Shakespeare,  thine! 
And  ever  is  the  primrose  born 
'Neath  Goldsmith's  overhanging  thorn. 
In  Hcrrick's  breastknot  I  can  see 
The  apple-blossom,  fresh  and  fair 
89 


As  when  he  plucked  and  put  it  there, 

Heedless  of  Time's  anthology. 

So  flower  by  flower  comes  into  view 
Kept  fadeless  by  the  Olympian  dew 
For  startled  eyes;  and  yet  not  you, 
Sweetwilliam. 

Though  gods  of  song  have  let  you  be, 

Bloom  in  my  little  book  for  me. 

Unwont  to  stoop  or  lean,  you  show 

An  undefeated  heart,  and  grow 

As  pluckily  as  cedars.  Heat 

And  cold,  and  winds  that  make 

Tumbledown  sallies,  cannot  shake 

Your  resolution  to  be  sweet. 

Then  take  this  song,  be  it  born  to  die 

Ere  yet  the  unwedded  butterfly 

Has  glimpsed  a  darling  in  the  sky, 

Sweetwilliam! 

Norman  Gale 

ROSE-GERANIUM 

A  pungent  spray  of  rose-geranium  — 
A  breath  of  the  old  life. 

It  brings  up  the  little  five-room  cottage  where  I  was  born, 
And  where  I  grew  through  a  smiling  childhood. 

90 


The  white-bearded  grandfather  sits  in  his  mended  rocking-chair, 
His  eyes  far  off,  crooning  "The  Sweet  By  and  By," 
Marked  with  the  tapping  of  his  toe  upon  the  weathered  porch-floor, 
While  the  sunshine  drizzles  through  the  great  oaks. 

And  there  is  my  grandmother's  kneeling  figure, 

Turning  over  the  rich  black  earth  with  her  trowel; 

And  the  kind  wrinkles  on  her  face,  as  she  says: 

"Did  n't  the  pansies  do  finely  this  year,  Clem? 

And  the  scarlet  verbenas,  and  the  larkspurs, 

And  the  row  of  flaming  salvia.  .  .  . 

Those  roses  .  .  .  they're  Marshal  Niels  ...  my  favorites. 

And  little  grandson,  smell  this  spray  of  rose-geranium  — 

Just  think,  when  grandmother  was  a  little  tiny  girl 

Her  grandmother  grew  them  in  her  yard!" 

Clement  Wood 

FOUR  O'CLOCKS 

It  is  mid-afternoon.  Long,  long  ago 
Each  morning-glory  sheathed  the  slender  horn 
It  blew  so  gayly  on  the  hills  of  morn, 

And  fainted  in  the  noontide's  fervid  glow. 

Gone  are  the  dew-drops  from  the  rose's  heart  — 
Gone  with  the  freshness  of  the  early  hours, 
The  songs  that  filled  the  air  with  silver  showers, 

The  lovely  dreams  that  were  of  morn  a  part. 

91 


Fet  still  in  tender  light  the  garden  lies; 

The  warm,  sweet  winds  are  whispering  soft  and  low; 

Brown  bees  and  butterflies  flit  to  and  fro; 
The  peace  of  heaven  is  in  the  o'erarching  skies. 

And  here  be  four-o'clocks,  just  opening  wide 

Their  many  colored  petals  to  the  sun, 

As  glad  to  live  as  if  the  evening  dun 
Were  far  away,  and  morning  had  not  died! 

Julia  C.  R.  Dorr 


ASKING  FOR  ROSES 

A  house  that  lacks,  seemingly,  mistress  and  master, 
With  doors  that  none  but  the  wind  ever  closes, 

Its  floor  all  littered  with  glass  and  with  plaster; 
It  stands  in  a  garden  of  old-fashioned  roses. 

I  pass  by  that  way  in  the  gloaming  with  Mary; 
"  I  wonder,"  I  say,  "  who  the  owner  of  those  is." 
"  Oh,  no  one  you  know,"  she  answers  me  airy, 
"  But  one  we  must  ask  if  we  want  any  roses." 

So  we  must  join  hands  in  the  dew  coming  coldly 
There  in  the  hush  of  the  wood  that  reposes, 

And  turn  and  go  up  to  the  open  door  boldly, 
And  knock  to  the  echoes  as  beggars  for  roses. 

92 


"Pray,  are  you  within  there,  Mistress  Who-were-you? " 
'T  is  Mary  that  speaks  and  our  errand  discloses. 

"  Pray  are  you  within  there?  Bestir  you,  bestir  you! 
'Tis  summer  again;  there  's  two  come  for  roses. 

"A  word  with  you,  that  of  the  singer  recalling  — 
Old  Herrick:  a  saying  that  every  man  knows  is 
A  flower  unplucked  is  but  left  to  the  falling, 
And  nothing  is  gained  by  not  gathering  roses." 

We  do  not  loosen  our  hands'  intertwining 
(Not  caring  so  very  much  what  she  supposes), 

There  when  she  comes  on  us  mistily  shining 
And  grants  us  by  silence  the  boon  of  her  roses. 

Robert  Frost 

THE  OLD  BROCADE 

In  a  black  oak  chest  all  carven, 

We  found  it  laid, 
Still  faintly  sweet  of  Lavender, 

An  old  brocade. 
With  that  perfume  came  a  vision, 

A  garden  fair, 
Enclosed  by  great  yew  hedges; 

A  Lady  there, 
Is  culling  fresh  blown  lavender, 

And  singing  goes 
93 


Up  and  down  the  alleys  green  — 

A  human  rose. 
The  sun  glints  on  her  auburn  hair 

And  brightens,  too, 
The  silver  buckles  that  adorn 

Each  little  shoe. 
Her  'kerchief  and  her  elbow  sleeves 

Are  cobweb  lace; 
Her  gown,  it  is  our  old  brocade, 

Worn  with  a  grace. 
Methinks  I  hear  its  soft  frou-frou, 

And  see  the  sheen 
Of  its  dainty  pink  moss-rose  buds, 

Their  leaves  soft  green, 
On  a  ground  of  palest  shell  pink, 

In  garlands  laid; 

But  long  dead  the  Rose  who  wore  it  — 

The  old  brocade. 

M.  G.  Brereton 

STAIRWAYS  AND  GARDENS 

Gardens  and  Stairways;  those  are  words  that  thrill  me 

Always  with  vague  suggestions  of  delight. 

Stairways  and  Gardens.  Mystery  and  grace 

Seem  part  of  their  environment;  they  fill  all  space 

With  memories  of  things  veiled  from  my  sight 

In  some  far  place. 

94 


Gardens.  The  word  is  overcharged  with  meaning; 
It  speaks  of  moonlight,  and  a  closing  door; 
Of  birds  at  dawn  —  of  sultry  afternoons. 
Gardens.  I  seem  to  see  low  branches  screening 
A  vine-roofed  arbor  with  a  leaf-tiled  floor 
Where  sunlight  swoons. 

Stairways.  The  word  winds  upward  to  a  landing, 

Then  curves  and  vanishes  in  space  above. 

Lights  fall,  lights  rise;  soft  lights  that  meet  and  blend. 

Stairways;  and  some  one  at  the  bottom  standing 

Expectantly  with  lifted  looks  of  love. 

Then  steps  descend. 

Gardens  and  Stairways.  They  belong  with  song  — 
With  subtle  scents  of  perfume,  myrrh  and  musk  — 
With  dawn  and  dusk  —  with  youth,  romance,  and  mystery, 
And  times  that  were  and  times  that  are  to  be. 
Stairways  and  Gardens. 

Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox 

OLD  MOTHERS 

I  love  old  mothers  —  mothers  with  white  hair, 
And  kindly  eyes,  and  lips  grown  softly  sweet 
With  murmured  blessings  over  sleeping  babes. 
There  is  a  something  in  their  quiet  grace 

95 


That  speaks  the  calm  of  Sabbath  afternoons; 

A  knowledge  in  their  deep,  unfaltering  eyes 

That  far  outreaches  all  philosophy. 

Time,  with  caressing  touch,  about  them  weaves 

The  silver-threaded  fairy-shawl  of  age, 

While  all  the  echoes  of  forgotten  songs 

Seem  joined  to  lend  a  sweetness  to  their  speech. 

Old  mothers!  —  as  they  pace  with  slow-timed  step, 

Their  trembling  hands  cling  gently  to  youth's  strength; 

Sweet  mothers!  —  as  they  pass,  one  sees  again 

Old  garden-walks,  old  roses,  and  old  loves. 

Charles  Ross 


PASTURES  AND  HILLSIDES 


SONG  FROM  "APRIL" 

/  know 

Where  the  wind  flowers  blow  I 
I  know, 

I  have  been 
Where  the  wild  honey  bees 

Gather  honey  for  their  queen  I 

I  would  be 

A  wild  flower, 
Blue  sky  over  me, 

For  an  hour  .  .  .  an  hour  ! 
So  the  wild  bees 

Should  seek  and  discover  me, 
And  kiss  me  .  .  .  kiss  me  .  .  .  Zeiss  me  I 

Not  one  of  the  dusky  dears  should  miss  me  I 

I  know 

Where  the  wind  flowers  blow! 
I  know, 

I  have  been 
Where  the  little  rabbits  run 
In  the  warm,  yellow  sun  I 

Oh,  to  be  a  wild  flower 

For  an  hour  .  .  .  an  hour  .  .  . 

In  the  heather  I 
A  bright  flower,  a  wild  flower, 

Blown  by  the  weather! 

I  know, 

I  have  been 
Where  the  wild  honey  bees 

Gather  Honey  for  their  queen  I 

Irene  Rutherford  McLeod 


THE  ROAD  TO  THE  POOL 

I  know  a  road  that  leads  from  town, 
A  pale  road  in  a  Watteau  gown 
Of  wild-rose  sprays,  that  runs  away 
All  fragrant-sandaled,  slim  and  gray. 

It  slips  along  the  laurel  grove 
And  down  the  hill,  intent  to  rove, 
And  crooks  an  arm  of  shadow  cool 
Around  a  willow-silvered  pool. 

I  never  travel  very  far 
Beyond  the  pool  where  willows  are: 
There  is  a  shy  and  native  grace 
That  hovers  all  about  the  place, 

And  resting  there  I  hardly  know 
Just  where  it  was  I  meant  to  go, 
Contented  like  the  road  that  dozes 
In  panniered  gown  of  briar  roses. 

Grace  Hazard  Conkling 

THE  WILD  ROSE 

Summer  has  crossed  the  fields,  and  where  she  trod 
Violets  bloom;  the  dancing  wind-flowers  nod, 
And  daisies  blossom  all  across  the  sod. 
99 


She  passed  the  brook,  and  in  their  glad  surprise 
The  first  forget-me-nots  smiled  at  the  skies 
And  caught  the  very  color  of  her  eyes. 

But,  sleeping  in  the  meadow-land,  she  pressed 
The  dear  wild  rose  so  closely  to  her  breast 
It  stole  her  heart  —  and  so  she  loves  it  best. 

Charles  Buxton  Going 


UP  A  HILL  AND  A  HILL 

Up  a  hill  and  a  hill  there 's  a  sudden  orchard-slope, 
•     And  a  little  tawny  field  in  the  sun; 
There 's  a  gray  wall  that  coils  like  a  twist  of  frayed-out  rope, 
And  grasses  nodding  news  one  to  one. 

Up  a  hill  and  a  hill  there 's  a  windy  place  to  stand, 
And  between  the  apple-boughs  to  find  the  blue 

Of  the  sleepy  summer  sea,  past  the  cliffs  of  orange  sand, 
With  the  white  charmed  ships  sliding  through. 

Up  a  hill  and  a  hill  there 's  a  little  house  as  gray 
As  a  stone  that  the  glaciers  scored  and  stained; 

With  a  red  rose  by  the  door,  and  a  tangled  garden-way, 
And  a  face  at  the  window,  checker-paned. 


100 


I  could  climb,  I  could  climb,  till  the  shoes  fell  off  my  feet, 
Just  to  find  that  tawny  field  above  the  sea! 

Up  a  hill  and  a  hill,  —  oh,  the  honeysuckle's  sweet! 
And  the  eyes  at  the  window  watch  for  me! 

Fannie  Stearns  Davis 


THE  JOYS  OF  A  SUMMER  MORNING 

The  smell  of  the  morning  that  lurks  in  the  hay, 

The  swish  of  the  scythe 

And  the  roundelay 
Of  the  meadow-lark  as  he  wings  away, 
Are  the  joys  of  a  summer  morning. 

The  daisy's  bloom  on  the  meadow's  breast, 

The  wandering  bee 

And  his  ceaseless  quest 
Of  the  tempting  sweets  in  the  clover's  crest, 
Are  the  joys  of  a  summer  morning. 

The  lowing  kine  on  a  distant  hill, 

The  rollicking  fall 

Of  the  near-by  rill 
And  the  lazy  drone  of  the  ancient  mill, 
Are  the  joys  of  a  summer  morning. 


101 


The  feathery  clouds  in  a  faultless  sky, 
The  new-risen  sun 
With  its  kindly  eye 
And  the  woodland  breezes  floating  by, 
Are  the  joys  of  a  summer  morning. 

Henry  A.  Wise  Wood 

SOUTH  WIND 

Where  have  you  been,  South  Wind,  this  May-day  morning, 
With  larks  aloft,  or  skimming  with  the  swallow, 
Or  with  blackbirds  in  a  green,  sun-glinted  thicket? 

Oh,  I  heard  you  like  a  tyrant  in  the  valley; 
Your  ruffian  hosts  shook  the  young,  blossoming  orchards; 
You  clapped  rude  hands,  hallooing  round  the  chimney, 
And  white  your  pennons  streamed  along  the  river. 

You  have  robbed  the  bee,  South  Wind,  in  your  adventure, 
Blustering  with  gentle  flowers;  but  I  forgave  you 
When  you  stole  to  me  shyly  with  scent  of  hawthorn. 

Siegfried  Sassoon 

TO  A  WEED 

You  bold  thing!  thrusting  'neath  the  very  nose 
Of  her  fastidious  majesty,  the  rose, 
Even  in  the  best  ordained  garden  bed, 
Unauthorized,  your  smiling  little  head! 
102 


The  gardener,  mind!  will  come  in  his  big  boots, 
And  drag  you  up  by  your  rebellious  roots, 
And  cast  you  forth  to  shrivel  in  the  sun, 
Your  daring  quelled,  your  little  weed's  life  done. 

And  when  the  noon  cools,  and  the  sun  drops  low, 
He  '11  come  again  with  his  big  wheelbarrow, 
And  trundle  you  —  I  don't  know  clearly  where, 
But  off,  outside  the  dew,  the  light,  the  air. 

Meantime  —  ah,  yes!  the  air  is  very  blue, 
And  gold  the  light,  and  diamond  the  dew,  — 
You  laugh  and  courtesy  in  your  worthless  way, 
And  you  are  gay,  ah,  so  exceeding  gay! 

You  argue  in  your  manner  of  a  weed, 
You  did  not  make  yourself  grow  from  a  seed, 
You  fancy  you've  a  claim  to  standing-room, 
You  dream  yourself  a  right  to  breathe  and  blot>m. 

The  sun  loves  you,  you  think,  just  as  the  rose, 
He  never  scorned  you  for  a  weed,  —  he  knows! 
The  green-gold  flies  rest  on  you  and  are  glad, 
It's  only  cross  old  gardeners  find  you  bad. 

You  know,  you  weed,  I  quite  agree  with  you, 
I  am  a  weed  myself,  and  I  laugh  too,  — 
Both,  just  as  long  as  we  can  shun  his  eye, 
Let's  sniff  at  the  old  gardener  trudging  by! 

Gertrude  Hall 

103 


THE  PASTURE 

I'm  going  out  to  clean  the  pasture  spring; 
I  '11  only  stop  to  rake  the  leaves  away 
(And  wait  to  watch  the  water  clear,  I  may) : 
I  sha'n't  be  gone  long.  —  You  come  too. 

I'm  going  out  to  fetch  the  little  calf 
That's  standing  by  the  mother.  It's  so  young, 
It  totters  when  she  licks  it  with  her  tongue. 
I  sha'n't  be  gone  long.  —  You  come  too. 

Robert  Frost 

THE  THISTLE 

Ha,  prickle-armed  knight, 

How  oft  the  world  hath  cursed  thee, 

Thou  pestilence  of  Earth, 

The  beldame  who  hath  nursed  thee! 

Hath  hellish  Proserpine 

Her  needs  lent  to  arm  thee 
That  mischief-loving  gods, 

Pricked  sorely,  may  not  harm  thee? 

Or  hath  the  mirthful  Love 

Presented  thee  his  pinions 
To  dress  thy  tiny  seeds, 

The  curse  of  man's  dominions! 
104 


Thou  like  a  maiden  art 

Who  best  can  find  protection 
Employed  at  needlework 

From  idleness'  infection. 

Vnd  like  a  prude  thou  art 

When  he  who  loves  embraces; 
Thou  dost  repel  with  thorns 

And  she  with  sharper  phrases. 

And  like  the  wraith  thou  art 
Wherewith  my  heart  is  haunted; 

Ye  both  take  most  delight 
Where  ye  the  least  are  wanted. 

Miles  M.  Dawson 


CLOVER 

Little  masters,  hat  in  hand, 
Let  me  in  your  presence  stand, 
Till  your  silence  solve  for  me 
This  your  threefold  mystery. 

Tell  me  —  for  I  long  to  know  — 
How,  in  darkness  there  below, 
Was  your  fairy  fabric  spun, 
Spread  and  fashioned,  three  in  one. 
105 


Did  your  gossips  gold  and  blue, 
Sky  and  Sunshine,  choose  for  you, 
Ere  your  triple  forms  were  seen, 
Suited  liveries  of  green? 

Can  ye  —  if  ye  dwelt  indeed 
Captives  of  a  prison  seed  — 
Like  the  Genie,  once  again 
Get  you  back  into  the  grain? 

Little  masters,  may  I  stand 
In  your  presence,  hat  in  hand, 
Waiting  till  you  solve  for  me 
This  your  threefold  mystery? 


John  B.  Tabb 


WILD  GARDENS 


On  the  ripened  grass  is  a  bloomy  mist 
Of  silver  and  rose  and  amethyst 
Where  the  long  June  wave  has  run. 

There  are  glints  of  copper  and  tarnished  brass, 
And  hyacinthine  flames  that  pass 
From  the  green  fires  of  the  sun. 

This  web  of  a  thousand  gleams  and  glows 
Was  woven  silently  out  of  the  snows 
And  the  patient' shine  and  rain. 
106 


It  was  fashioned  cunningly  day  by  day 
From  the  silken  spear  to  the  pollened  spray 
With  its  folded  sheaths  of  grain. 

Oh,  garden  of  grasses  deep  and  wild, 
So  dear  to  the  vagrant  and  the  child 
And  the  singer  of  an  hour. 

To  the  wayworn  soul  you  give  your  balm, 
Your  cup  of  peace,  your  stringed  psalm, 
Your  grace  of  bud  and  flower. 

Ada  Foster  Murray 

THE  DANDELION 

0  dandelion,  rich  and  haughty, 
King  of  village  flowers! 

Each  day  is  coronation  time, 
You  have  no  humble  hours. 

1  like  to  see  you  bring  a  troop 
To  beat  the  blue-grass  spears, 

To  scorn  the  lawn-mower  that  would  be 

Like  fate's  triumphant  shears. 

Your  yellow  heads  are  cut  away, 

It  seems  your  reign  is  o'er. 

By  noon  you  raise  a  sea  of  stars 

More  golden  than  before. 

Vachel  Lindsay 

107 


JOE-PYEWEED 

And  the  name  brings  back  those  kindly  hills 

And  the  drowsing  life  so  new  to  me; 
And  the  welcome  that  those  purple  blossoms 

With  their  tiny  trumpets  blew  to  me. 

Stout  and  tall,  they  raised  their  clustered  heads, 

Leaping,  as  a  lusty  fellow  would, 
Through  the  lowlands,  down  the  twisting  cow-paths; 

Running  past  the  green  and  yellow  wood. 

How  they  come  again  —  those  rambling  roads; 

And  the  weeds'  wild  jewels  glowing  there. 
Richer  than  a  Paradise  of  flowers 

Was  that  bit  of  pasture  growing  there. 

Weeds  —  the  very  names  call  up  those  faint 
Half-forgotten  smells  and  cries  again  .  .  . 

Weeds  —  like  some  old  charm,  I  say  them  over, 
And  the  rolling  Berkshires  rise  again: 

Basil,  Boneset,  Toadflax,  Tansy, 
Weeds  of  every  form  and  fancy ; 
Milk-weed,  Mullein,  Loose-strife,  Jewel-weed, 
Mustard,  Thimble-weed,  Tear-thumb  (a  cruel  weed). 
Clovers  in  all  sorts  —  Nonesuch,  Melilot; 
Staring  Buttercups,  a  bold  and  yellow  lot. 

108 


Daisies  rioting  about  the  place 

With  Black-eyed  Susan  and  Queen  Anne's  Lace.  .  .  . 

Names  —  they  blossom  into  colored  hills; 

Hills  whose  rousing  beauty  flows  to  me  .  .  . 
And  with  all  its  soundless,  purple  trumpets, 

Lo,  the  Joe-Pyeweed  still  blows  to  me! 

Louis  Untermeyer 

TO  A  DAISY 

Slight  as  thou  art,  thou  art  enough  to  hide 
Like  all  created  things,  secrets  from  me, 
And  stand  a  barrier  to  eternity. 

And  I,  how  can  I  praise  thee  well  and  wide 

From  where  I  dwell  —  upon  the  hither  side? 
Thou  little  veil  for  so  great  mystery, 
When  shall  I  penetrate  all  things  and  thee, 

And  then  look  back?  For  this  I  must  abide, 

Till  thou  shalt  grow  and  fold  and  be  unfurled 
Literally  between  me  and  the  world. 
Then  I  shall  drink  from  in  beneath  a  spring, 

And  from  a  poet's  side  shall  read  his  book. 
0  daisy  mine,  what  will  it  be  to  look 

From  God's  side  even  of  such  a  simple  tiling? 

Alice  Meynell 

109 


A  SOFT  DAY 

A  soft  day,  thank  God! 

A  wind  from  the  south 

With  a  honeyed  mouth; 

A  scent  of  drenching  leaves, 

Briar  and  beech  and  lime, 

White  elder-flower  and  thyme 
And  the  soaking  grass  smells  sweet, 
Crushed  by  my  two  bare  feet, 

While  the  rain  drips, 
Drips,  drips,  drips  from  the  eaves. 

A  soft  day,  thank  God! 

The  hills  wear  a  shroud 

Of  silver  cloud; 

The  web  the  spider  weaves 

Is  a  glittering  net; 

The  woodland  path  is  wet, 
And  the  soaking  earth  smells  sweet 
Under  my  two  bare  feet, 

And  the  rain  drips, 
Drips,  drips,  drips  from  the  eaves. 

W.  M.  Letts 


110 


ARBUTUS 

Not  Spring's 

Thou  art,  but  hers, 

Most  cool,  most  virginal, 

Winter's,  with  thy  faint  breath,  thy  snows 

Rose-tinged. 


Adelaide  Crapsey 


JEWEL-WEED 


Thou  lonely,  dew-wet  mountain  road, 
Traversed  by  toiling  feet  each  day, 

What  rare  enchantment  maketh  thee 
Appear  so  gay? 

Thy  sentinels,  on  either  hand 

Rise  tamarack,  birch,  and  balsam-fir, 
O'er  the  familiar  shrubs  that  greet 

The  wayfarer; 

But  here's  a  magic  cometh  new  — 
A  joy  to  gladden  thee,  indeed: 

This  passionate  out-flowering  of 
The  jewel- weed, 

That  now,  when  days  are  growing  drear, 
As  Summer  dreams  that  she  is  old, 

Hangs  out  a  myriad  pleasure-bells 
Of  mottled  gold! 
Ill 


Thine  only,  these,  thou  lonely  road! 

Though  hands  that  take,  and  naught  restore, 
Rob  thee  of  other  treasured  things, 

Thine  these  are,  for 

A  fairy,  cradled  in  each  bloom, 

To  all  who  pass  the  charmed  spot 
Whispers  in  warning:  "Friend,  admire,— 

But  touch  me  not! 

"Leave  me  to  blossom  where  I  sprung, 
A  joy  untarnished  shall  I  seem; 
Pluck  me,  and  you  dispel  the  charm 
And  blur  the  dream!" 

Florence  Earle  Coates 


THE  WALL 

"Something  there  is  that  does  n't  like  a  wall."     (Robert  Frost) 

"Not  like  a  wall?" 
I  sit  above  the  meadow  in  the  glowing  fall 
Tracing  the  grey  redoubt  from  square  to  square 
Which  bound  the  acres  harvest-ripe  and  fair,  — 
And  wonder  if  it's  true? 

Nay,  ask  the  sumac  and  the  teeming  vine, 
That  lean  upon  the  boulders, 
The  crimsoning  ivy  and  the  wild  woodbine 

112 


Whose  eager  fingers  clutch  the  stony  shoulders, 
The  golden  rod,  the  aster  and  the  rue. 
Ask  the  red  squirrel  with  the  chubby  cheek 

Skipping  from  stone  to  stone 
By  a  quick  route,  his  hidden  hoard  to  seek, 

Making  the  little  viaduct  his  own. 
Look  where  the  woodchuck  lifts  a  cautious  head 
Between  the  rocks  close  by  the  cabbage  bed; 

The  honey-bees  have  built  a  secret  hive 
In  a  forgotten  chink; 
And  there  a  grey  cocoon  is  tucked  away 
Shrouding  a  miracle  in  mauve  and  pink 
To  wait  its  Easter  day. 

The  wall  with  pageantry  is  all  alive! 

And  I  who  gaze 

On  the  dark  border  here, 
Drawn  like  a  ribbon  round  the  pasture-ways, 

Embroidered  with  the  glory  of  the  year,  — 
Do  I  not  like  the  wall? 
Lo,  I  remember  how  in  days  of  old 

My  grandsire  toiled  with  weariness  and  pain 
To  dig  the  cumbering  boulders  from  the  mould; 

Piled  them  in  ordered  rows  again, 
Fitting  them  firm  and  fast, 
A  monument  to  last 

Long  after  his  own  harried  day  was  past. 

113 


He  cleared  the  rocky  soil  for  corn  and  grain 

By  which  his  children  throve 
To  carry  on  the  race. 

We  live  by  his  life-giving. 
I  see  each  stone,  rough  like  his  granite  face,  — 

Uncompromising,  stern,  no  slave  to  love, 
Dowered  with  little  grace, 

Grim  with  the  hard,  unjoyful  task  of  living, 
But  strong  to  stand  the  wrath  of  storm  and  time, 

And  bolts  that  heaven  let  fall. 
Built  of  a  patriot's  prime,  — 

I  love  the  wall! 

Abbie  Farwell  Brown 

BOULDERS 

There  is  a  look  of  wisdom  in  yon  stones, 
Great  boulders  basking  in  the  noonday  heat, 
Their  grimness  lightened  by  a  fringe  of  sweet 
Fresh  fern  or  moss  or  green-gray  lichen  tones. 
While  through  the  glade  an  insect  army  drones 
And  birds  from  neighboring  boughs  their  notes  repeat, 
These  patriarchs,  drowsing  as  in  bliss  complete, 
Rest  on  the  flowery  sward  their  tranquil  bones. 

A  thousand  or  ten  thousand  years  ago, 
Shattered  by  frost,  or  by  the  torrent's  might, 

114 


These  boulders  hurtled  from  some  toppling  height 
And  crashed  through  forests  to  the  plain  below. 
Now,  reconciled  to  Nature's  gentler  mood, 
They  he  on  lowly  earth  and  find  it  good. 

Charles  Wharton  Stork 


AFTERNOON  ON  A  HILL 

I  will  be  the  gladdest  thing 

Under  the  sun; 
I  will  touch  a  hundred  flowers 

And  not  pick  one; 

I  will  look  at  cliffs  and  clouds 

With  quiet  eyes; 
Watch  the  wind  bow  down  the  grass, 

And  the  grass  rise ; 

And  when  lights  begin  to  show 

Up  from  the  town, 
I  will  mark  which  must  be  mine, 

And  then  start  down. 

Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay 


115 


THE  GOLDEN-ROD 

O  Rod  of  gold! 

0  swaying  sceptre  of  the  year  — 

Now  frost  and  cold 
Show  Winter  near, 
And  shivering  leaves  grow  brown  and  sere. 

The  bleak  hillside, 
And  marshy  waste  of  yellow  reeds, 

And  meadows  wide 
Where  frosted  weeds 
Shake  on  the  damp  wind  light-winged  seeds, 

Are  decked  with  thee,  — 
The  lingering  Summer's  latest  grace, 

And  sovereignty. 
Each  wind-swept  space 
Waves  thy  red  gold  in  Winter's  face  — 

He  strives  each  star, 
In  stormy  pride  to  lay  full  low; 

But  when  thy  bar 
Resists  his  blow, 
Will  crown  thee  with  a  puff  of  snow! 

Margaret  Deland 


116 


THE  PATH  THAT  LEADS  TO  NOWHERE 

There  's  a  path  that  leads  to  nowhere 

In  a  meadow  that  I  know, 
Where  an  inland  island  rises 

And  the  stream  is  still  and  slow; 
There  it  wanders  under  willows 

And  beneath  the  silver  green 
Of  the  birches'  silent  shadows 

Where  the  early  violets  lean. 

Other  pathways  lead  to  Somewhere, 

But  the  one  I  love  so  well 
Had  no  end  and  no  beginning  — 

Just  the  beauty  of  the  dell, 
Just  the  windflowers  and  the  lilies, 

Yellow  striped  as  adder's  tongue 
Seem  to  satisfy  my  pathway 

As  it  winds  their  sweets  among. 

There  I  go  to  meet  the  Spring-time, 

When  the  meadow  is  aglow, 
Marigolds  amid  the  marshes,  — 

And  the  stream  is  still  and  slow.  — 
There  I  find  my  fair  oasis, 

And  with  carc-frec  feet  I  tread 
For  the  pathway  leads  to  nowhere, 

And  the  blue  is  overhead! 

117 


All  the  ways  that  lead  to  Somewhere 

Echo  with  the  hurrying  feet 
Of  the  Struggling  and  the  Striving, 

But  the  way  I  find  so  sweet 
Bids  me  dream  and  bids  me  linger, 

Joy  and  Beauty  are  its  goal,  — 
On  the  path  that  leads  to  nowhere 

I  have  sometimes  found  my  soul! 

Corinne  Roosevelt  Robinson 


LOVERS  AND  ROSES 


THE  MESSAGE 

So  fair  the  world  about  me  lies, 
So  pure  is  heaven  above, 
Ere  so  much  beauty  dies 
I  would  give  a  gift  to  my  love ; 
Now,  ere  the  long  day  close, 
That  has  been  so  full  of  bliss, 
I  will  send  to  my  love  the  rose, 
In  Us  leaves  I  will  shut  a  kiss ; 
A  rose  in  the  night  to  perish, 
A  kiss  through  life  to  cherish ; 
Now,  ere  the  night-wind  blows, 
I  will  send  unto  her  the  rose. 

Geobqe  Edward  Woodbehrt 


'WHERE  LOVE  IS  LIFE" 

Where  love  is  life 
The  roses  blow, 
Though  winds  be  rude 
And  cold  the  snow, 
The  roses  climb 
Serenely  slow, 
They  nod  in  rhyme 
We  know  —  we  know 
Where  love  is  life 
The  roses  blow. 

Where  life  is  love 
The  roses  blow, 
Though  care  be  quick 
And  sorrows  grow, 
Their  roots  are  twined 
With  rose-roots  so 
That  rosebuds  find 
A  way  to  show 
Where  life  is  love 
The  roses  blow. 

Duncan  Campbell  Scott 


121 


THE  TIME  OF  ROSES 

Love,  it  is  the  time  of  roses! 
In  bright  fields  and  garden-closes 
How  they  burgeon  and  unfold! 
How  they  sweep  o'er  tombs  and  towers 
In  voluptuous  crimson  showers 
And  untrammelled  tides  of  gold! 

How  they  lure  wild  bees  to  capture 
All  the  rich  mellifluous  rapture 
Of  their  magical  perfume, 
And  to  passing  winds  surrender 
And  their  frail  and  dazzling  splendor 
Rivalling  your  turban-plume! 

How  they  cleave  the  air  adorning 
The  high  rivers  of  the  morning 
In  a  blithe,  bejewelled  fleet! 
How  they  deck  the  moonlit  grasses 
In  thick  rainbow  tinted  masses 
Like  a  fair  queen's  bridal  sheet! 

Hide  me  in  a  shrine  of  roses, 
Drown  me  in  a  wine  of  roses 
Drawn  from  every  fragrant  grove! 
122 


Bind  me  on  a  pyre  of  roses, 
Burn  me  in  a  fire  of  roses, 
Crown  me  with  the  rose  of  Love! 

Sakojini  Naidu 

LOVE  PLANTED  A  ROSE 

Love  planted  a  rose, 

And  the  world  turned  sweet. 

Where  the  wheat-field  blows 

Love  planted  a  rose. 

Up  the  mill-wheel's  prose 
Ran  a  music-beat. 

Love  planted  a  rose, 
And  the  world  turned  sweet. 

Katharine  Lee  Bates 

THE  GARDEN 

My  heart  shall  be  thy  garden.  Come,  my  own, 
Into  thy  garden;  thine  be  happy  hours 
Among  my  fairest  thoughts,  my  tallest  flowers, 

From  root  to  crowning  petal  thine  alone. 

Thine  is  the  place  from  where  the  seeds  are  sown 
Up  to  the  sky  enclosed,  with  all  its  showers. 
But  ah,  the  birds,  the  birds!  Who  shall  build  bowers 

To  keep  these  thine?  O  friend,  the  birds  have  flown. 

123 


For  as  these  come  and  go,  and  quit  our  pine 
To  follow  the  sweet  season,  or,  new-comers, 
Sing  one  song  only  from  our  alder-trees, 

My  heart  has  thoughts,  which,  though  thine  eyes  hold  mine, 
Fit  to  the  silent  world  and  other  summers, 
With  wings  that  dip  beyond  the  silver  seas. 

Alice  Meynell 


CLOUD  AND  FLOWER 

I  saw  the  giant  stalking  to  the  sky, 

The  giant  cloud  above  the  wilderness, 

Bearing  a  mystery  too  far,  too  high, 

For  my  poor  guess. 

Away  I  turned  me,  sighing:  "I  must  seek 

In  lowlier  places  for  the  wonder- word. 

Something  more  little,  intimate,  shall  speak." 

A  bright  rose  stirred. 

And  long  I  looked  into  its  face,  to  see 

At  last  some  hidden  import  of  the  hour. 

And  I  had  thought  to  turn  from  mystery  — 
But  0,  flower!  flower! 

Agnes  Lee 


124 


PROGRESS 

There  seems  no  difference  between 

To-day  and  yesterday  — 
The  forest  glimmers  just  as  green, 

The  garden's  just  as  gay. 

Yet,  something  came  and  something  went 

Within  the  night's  chill  gloom: 
An  old  rose  fell,  her  fragrance  spent, 

A  new  rose  burst  in  bloom. 

Charlotte  Becker 

'BUT  WE  DID  WALK  IN  EDEN" 

But  we  did  walk  in  Eden, 

Eden,  the  garden  of  God;  — 
There,  where  no  beckoning  wonder 
Of  all  the  paths  we  trod, 
No  choiring  sun-filled  vineyard, 
No  voice  of  stream  or  bird, 
But  was  some  radiant  oracle 
And  flaming  with  the  Word! 

Mine  ears  are  dim  with  voices; 
Mine  eyes  yet  strive  to  see 
The  black  things  here  to  wonder  at, 
The  mirth,  —  the  misery. 
I  IS 


Beloved,  who  wert  with  me  there, 
How  came  these  shames  to  be?  — 
On  what  lost  star  are  we? 

Men  say:  The  paths  of  gladness 

By  men  were  never  trod!  — 
But  we  have  walked  in  Eden, 

Eden,  the  garden  of  God. 

Josephine  Preston  Peabody 

A  GARDEN-PIECE 

Among  the  flowers  of  summer-time  she  stood, 

And  underneath  the  films  and  blossoms  shone 

Her  face,  like  some  pomegranate  strangely  grown 

To  ripe  magnificence  in  solitude; 

The  wanton  winds,  deft  whisperers,  had  strewed 

Her  shoulders  with  her  shining  hair  out  blown, 

And  dyed  her  breast  with  many  a  changing  tone 

Of  silvery  green,  and  all  the  hues  that  brood 

Among  the  flowers; 

She  raised  her  arm  up  for  her  dove  to  know 

That  he  might  preen  him  on  her  lovely  head; 

Then  I,  unseen,  and  rising  on  tiptoe, 

Bowed  over  the  rose-barriers,  and  lo! 

Touched  not  her  arm,  but  kissed  her  lips  instead, 

Among  the  flowers! 

Edmund  Gosse 

126 


"HOW  MANY  FLOWERS  ARE  GENTLY  MET" 

How  many  flowers  are  gently  met 
Within  my  garden  fair! 
The  daffodil,  the  violet, 
And  lilies  dear  are  there. 

• 

They  fade  and  pass,  the  fleeting  flowers, 
And  brief  their  little  light; 
They  hold  not  Love's  diviner  hours, 
Nor  Sower's  human  night. 

Tho'  one  by  one  their  bloom  depart, 
No  change  thy  lover  knows, 
For  mine  the  fragrance  of  thy  heart, 
O  thou  my  perfect  rose! 

George  Sterling: 


WITH  A  ROSE,  TO  BRUNHILDE 

Brunhilde,  with  the  young  Norn  soul 
That  has  no  peace,  and  grim  as  those 
That  spun  the  thread  of  life,  give  heed: 
Peace  is  concealed  in  every  rose. 
And  in  these  petals  peace  I  bring: 
A  jewel  clearer  than  the  dew: 
127 


A  perfume  subtler  than  the  breath 
Of  Spring  with  which  it  circles  you. 

Peace  I  have  found,  asleep,  awake, 
By  many  paths,  on  many  a  strand. 
Peace  overspreads  the  sky  with  stars. 
Peace  is  concealed  within  your  hand. 
And  when  at  night  I  clasp  it  there 
I  wonder  how  you  never  know 
The  strength  you  shed  from  finger-tips: 
The  treasure  that  consoles  me  so. 

Begin  the  art  of  finding  peace, 

Beloved:  —  it  is  art,  no  less. 

Sometimes  we  find  it  hid  beneath 

The  orchards  in  their  springtime  dress: 

Sometimes  one  finds  it  in  oak  woods, 

Sometimes  in  dazzling  mountain-snows; 

In  books,  sometimes.  But  pray  begin 

By  finding  it  within  a  rose. 

Vachel  Lindsay 

'MY  SOUL  IS  LIKE  A  GARDEN-CLOSE" 

My  soul  is  like  a  garden-close 
Where  marjoram  and  lilac  grow, 
Where  soft  the  scent  of  long  ago 

Over  the  border  lightly  blows. 
128 


WheTe  sometimes  homing  winds  at  play 
Bear  the  faint  fragrance  of  a  rose  — 
My  soul  is  like  a  garden-close 

Because  you  chanced  to  pass  my  way. 

Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr. 


A  DREAM 

I  dreamed  a  dream  of  roses  somewhere  breathing 

Their  sweet  souls  out  upon  the  summer  night: 

The  flowers  I  saw  not,  but  their  fragrance  wreathing 

Like  clouds  of  incense  filled  me  with  delight. 

And  then  as  if  for  my  still  further  pleasure 

There  came  a  flood  of  sweetest  melody,  — 

But  whence  I  knew  not  flowed  the  wondrous  measure, 

For  neither  flute  nor  viol  could  I  see. 

Then  in  the  vision  love  sublime,  immortal, 

Encircled  all  my  soul  with  its  pure  stream; 

And  though  I  saw  thee  not  through  dreamland's  portal, 

I  knew  thou  only  hadst  inspired  the  dream. 

T  is  thus  thine  influence  itself  discloses, 

In  dreams  of  love,  of  music,  and  of  roses! 

Antoinette  De  Coursey  Patterson 


120 


THE  ROSE 

The  rose-tree  wears  a  diadem, 

Both  bud  and  bloom  of  gold  and  fire, 
Too  high  upon  the  slender  stem 
For  baby  hands  that  reach  for  them: 

And  Roses!  my  brown  Elsa  cries: 

Her  chubby  arms  in  vain  aspire. 
But  rose-leaf  Hilda  smiles  and  sighs 
And  worships  them  with  patient  eyes. 

I  gathered  them  a  rose  or  two, 

But  not  the  shy  one  hanging  higher 
That  brushed  my  lips  with  honey-dew! 
That  is  the  rose  I  send  to  you. 

Grace  Hazard  Conkling 

PRAYER 

Would  that  I  might  become  you, 

Losing  myself,  my  sweet!  — 
So  longs  the  dust  that  lies 

About  the  rose's  feet. 

So  longs  the  last,  dim  star 

Hung  on  the  verge  of  night;  — 
She  moves  —  she  melts  —  she  slips  — 

She  trembles  into  the  light. 

John  Hall  Wheelock 

130 


IN  A  GARDEN 

I  sat  one  day  within  a  garden  fair 
Pining  for  thee  and  sad  because  alone, 
Wishing  some  fate  could  send  thee  to  me  there. 

All  things  appeared  to  share  my  saddened  mood, 
Each  flower  drooped,  the  sun  was  hid  from  view, 
The  very  birds  in  silence  seemed  to  brood. 

Then,  as  I  day-dreamed  with  my  eyes  half  closed, 

Sudden  the  birds  began  to  sing  again, 

The  flow'rs,  uplifting  heads,  no  longer  dozed. 

Thinking  the  sun  had  come  once  more  for  me 
And  for  all  nature,  to  effect  such  change, 
I  turned  and  lo!  saw  not  the  sun  but  thee. 

Livingston  L.  Biddle 

A  SONG  OF  FAIRIES 

Oh,  the  beauty  of  the  world  is  in  this  garden, 

I  hear  it  stir  on  every  hand. 
See  how  the  flowers  keep  still  because  of  it! 

hear  how  it  trembles  in  the  blackbird's  song! 
There  is  a  secret  in  it,  a  blessed  mystery. 
I  fain  would  weep  to  feel  it  near  mo,  my  eyes 

grow  dim  before  these  unseen  wings. 
131 


And  the  secret  is  in  other  places,  it  is  in  songs 

and  music  and  all  lovers'  hearts. 
Hush  now,  and  walk  on  tiptoe,  for  these  are  fairy  things. 

Elizabeth  Kirby 


A  SONG  TO  BELINDA 

Belinda  in  her  dimity, 

Whereon  are  wrought  pink  roses, 
Trips  through  the  boxwood  paths  to  me, 

A-down  the  garden-closes, 
As  though  a  hundred  roses  came, 

('T  was  so  I  thought)  to  meet  me, 
As  though  one  rosebud  said  my  name 

And  bent  its  head  to  greet  me. 

Belinda,  in  your  rose-wrought  dress 

You  seemed  the  garden's  growing; 
The  tilt  and  toss  o'  you,  no  less 

Than  wind-swayed  posy  blowing. 
'T  was  so  I  watched  in  sweet  dismay, 

Lest  in  that  happy  hour, 
Sudden  you  'd  stop  and  thrill  and  sway 

And  turn  into  a  flower. 

Theodosia  Garrison 


132 


SWEETHEART-LADY 

De  roses  lean  ter  love  her  an'  des  won't  leave  de  place; 

De  climbin'  mawnin'-glories  sweet-smilin'  in  her  face; 

De  twinklin'  pathway  know  her  an'  seem  ter  pass  de  word, 
An'  de  South  Win'  singin'  ter  her  ter  match  de  mockin'-bird. 

She  sweetheart  ter  de  Springtime, 

W'en  de  dreamy  roses  stir, 
An'  Winter  shine  lak'  Summer 

An'  wear  a  rose  fer  her. 

"Sweetheart! "  sing  de  Medder,  w'en  lak'  de  light  she  pass; 
De  River  take  de  tune  up:  "Make  me  yo'  lookin'-glass!" 
But  des  who  her  true  lover  she  never  let  'em  know; 
De  Win'  is  sich  a  tell-tale,  an'  de  River  run  on  so! 

But  Springtime  come  a-courtin' 

An'  let  de  blossoms  fall, 
An'  Summer  say:  "I  loves  you!" 

She  sweetheart  tor  'em  ALL! 

Frank  L.  Stanton 

HEART'S  GARDEN 

I  have  a  garden  filled  with  many  flowers: 
The  mignonette,  the  sweet-pea,  and  the  rose, 
Daisies,  and  daffodils,  whose  color  glows 
The  fairer  for  the  verdure  which  embowers 
133 


Their  beauty,  and  sets  forth  their  hidden  powers 
To  charm  my  heart,  whenever  at  the  close 
Of  day's  dull  hurry  I  would  seek  repose 
In  my  still  garden  through  the  darkening  hours. 

Thus,  Lady,  do  I  keep  a  place  apart, 
Wherein  my  love  for  you  cloistered  shall  be, 
Far  from  the  rattle  of  the  city  cart, 
Even  as  my  garden,  where  daily  I  may  see 
The  flowers  of  your  love,  and  none  from  me 
May  win  the  hidden  secret  of  my  heart. 

Norreys  Jephson  O'Conor 


A  ROSE  LOVER 

Do  thou,  my  rose,  incline 
Thy  heart  to  mine. 
If  love  be  real 
Ah,  whisper,  whisper  low 
That  I  at  last  may  know. 
Quick!  breathe  it  now! 
A  sigh,  —  a  tear,  —  a  vow: 
Oh,  any  lightest  thing 
Its  cadences  to  sing 
That  loved  am  I,  and  not, 
Ah,  not  forgot! 

Frederic  A.  Whiting 

134 


SONNET 

The  sweet  caresses  that  I  gave  to  you 

Are  but  the  perfume  of  the  Rose  of  Love, 

The  color  and  the  witchery  thereof, 
And  not  the  Rose  itself.  Each  is  a  clue 
Merely,  whereby  to  seek  the  hidden,  true, 

Substantial  blossom.  Like  the  Jordan  dove. 

A  kiss  is  but  a  symbol  from  above  — 
An  emblem  the  Reality  shines  through. 

The  Rose  of  Love  is  ever  unrevealed 
In  all  its  beauty,  for  the  sight  of  it 
Were  perilous  with  purpose  of  the  world. 

The  hand  of  Life  has  cautiously  concealed 
The  pollen-chamber  of  the  infinite 
Flower,  and  its  petals  only  half  uncurled. 

Elsa  Barker 


A  SONG  IN  A  GARDEN 

Will  the  garden  never  forget 
That  it  whispers  over  and  over, 
"Where  is  your  lover,  Nanette? 

Where  is  your  lover  —  your  lover?" 
Oh,  roses  I  helped  to  grow, 
Oh,  lily  and  mignonette, 
135 


Must  you  always  question  me  so, 

"Where  is  your  lover,  Nanette?" 
Since  you  looked  on  my  joy  one  day, 

Is  my  grief  then  a  lesser  thing? 
Have  you  only  this  to  say 

When  I  pray  you  for  comforting? 

Now  that  I  walk  alone 

Here  where  our  hands  were  met, 
Must  you  whisper  me  everyone, 

"Where  is  your  lover,  Nanette?  " 

I  have  mourned  with  you  year  and  year, 
When  the  Autumn  has  left  you  bare, 
And  now  that  my  heart  is  sere 

Does  not  one  of  your  roses  care? 
Oh,  help  me  forget  —  forget, 
Nor  question  over  and  over, 
"Where  is  your  lover,  Nanette? 

Where  is  your  lover  —  your  lover?" 

Theodosia  Garrison 

'IT  WAS  JUNE  IN  THE  GARDEN" 

It  was  June  in  the  garden, 
It  was  our  time,  our  day; 
And  our  gaze  with  love  on  everything 
Did  fall; 

136 


They  seemed  then  softly  opening, 
And  they  saw  and  loved  us  both, 
The  roses  all. 

The  sky  was  purer  than  all  limpid  thought; 

Insect  and  bird 
Swept  through  the  golden  texture  of  the  air, 

Unheard; 
Our  kisses  were  so  fair  they  brought 
Exaltation  to  both  light  and  bird. 
It  seemed  as  though  a  happiness  at  once 
Had  skied  itself  and  wished  the  heavens  entire 

For  its  resplendent  fire; 
And  life,  all  pulsing  life,  had  entered  in, 
Into  the  fissures  of  our  beings  to  the  core, 

To  fling  them  higher. 

And  there  was  nothing  but  invocatory  cries, 
Mad  impulses,  prayers  and  vows  that  cleave 

The  arched  skies, 
And  sudden  yearning  to  create  new  gods, 

In  order  to  believe. 

Emile  Verhaeren 


137 


TWO  ROSES 

A  fair  white  rose  sedately  grows 
Within  the  garden  wall.  There  blows 
No  wind  to  ruff  her  petals  white, 
No  stain  of  earth,  no  touch  of  blight 
The  pure  face  of  my  ladye  shows. 
The  queen  of  all  the  walls  enclose 
Might  be  mine  own,  an'  if  I  chose; 
But  yet,  but  yet  I  cannot  slight 
My  wild  red  rose. 

Outside  the  garden  wall  she  throws 

Her  clinging  tendrils,  and  she  knows 

How  strong  the  winds  of  passion  smite; 

She's  fragrant,  though  not  faultness  quite; 

Just  as  she  is,  none  shall  depose 

My  wild  red  rose. 

William  Lindsey 

ROSES 

Red  roses  floating  in  a  crystal  bowl 
You  bring,  0  love;  and  in  your  eyes  I  see,    . 
Blossom  on  blossom,  your  warm  love  of  me 
Burning  within  the  crystal  of  your  soul  — 
Red  roses  floating  in  a  crystal  bowl. 

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 
138 


HER  GARDEN 

This  friendly  garden,  with  its  fragrant  roses,  — 
It  was  not  ours,  when  she  was  here  below; 

And  so,  in  that  low  bed  where  she  reposes, 
The  beauty  of  it  all  she  cannot  know. 

But  in  the  evening  when  the  birds  are  calling 
The  fragrance  rises  like  a  breath  of  myrrh, 

And  in  my  empty  heart,  benignly  falling, 
Becomes  a  little  prayer  to  send  to  her. 

So,  in  that-  silent,  lonely  bed  that  holds  her, 
Where  nevermore  the  shadows  rise  or  flee, 

I  think  a  dream  of  radiant  spring  enfolds  her  — 
Of  bloom  and  bird  and  bending  bough  .  .  .  and  me. 

Louis  Dodge 

JERE  PERENNIUS 

As  long  as  the  stars  of  God 

Hang  steadfast  in  the  sky, 
And  the  blossoms  neath  the  sod 

Awake  when  Spring  is  nigh; 
As  long  as  the  nightingale 

Sings  love-songs  to  the  rose, 
And  the  Winter  wind  in  the  vale 

Makes  moan  o'er  the  virgin  snows  — 

139 


As  long  as  these  things  be 
I  would  tell  my  love  for  thee! 

As  long  as  the  rose  of  June 

Bursts  forth  in  crimson  fire, 
And  the  mellow  harvest-moon 

Shines  over  hill  and  spire; 
As  long  as  heaven's  dew 

At  morning  kisses  the  sod; 
As  long  as  you  are  you, 

And  I  know  that  God  is  God  — 
As  long  as  these  things  be 
I  would  tell  my  love  for  thee! 

Charles  Hanson  Towns 


EVER  THE  SAME 

King  Solomon  walked  a  thousand  times 

Forth  of  his  garden-close; 
And  saw  there  spring  no  goodlier  thing, 

Be  sure,  than  the  same  little  rose. 

Under  the  sun  was  nothing  new, 

Or  now,  I  well  suppose. 
But  what  new  thing  could  you  find  to  sing 

More  rare  than  the  same  little  rose? 
140 


Nothing  is  new;  save  I,  save  you, 

And  every  new  heart  that  grows, 
On  the  same  Earth  met,  that  nurtures  yet 

Breath  of  the  same  little  rose. 

Josephine  Preston  Peabody 


THE  MESSAGE 

When  one  has  heard  the  message  of  the  Rose, 
For  what  faint  other  calling  shall  he  care? 
Dark  broodings  turn  to  find  their  lonely  lair; 

The  vain  world  keeps  her  posturing  and  pose. 

He,  with  his  crimson  secret,  which  bestows 
Heaven  in  his  heart,  to  Heaven  lifts  his  prayer, 
And  knows  all  glory  trembling  through  the  air 

As  on  triumphal  journeying  he  goes. 

So  through  green  woodlands  in  the  twilight  dim, 
Led  by  the  faint,  pale  argent  of  a  star, 
What  though  to  others  it  is  weary  night, 
Nature  holds  out  her  wide,  sweet  heart  to  him; 
And,  leaning  o'er  the  world's  mysterious  bar, 
His  soul  is  great  with  everlasting  light. 

Helen  Hay  Whitney 


141 


TELL-TALE 

The  Lily  whispered  to  the  Rose: 

"The  Tulip  's  fearfully  stuck  up. 
You'd  think  to  see  the  creature's  pose, 

She  was  a  golden  altar-cup. 
There's  method  in  her  boldness,  too; 
She  catches  twice  her  share  of  Dew." 

The  Rose  into  the  Tulip's  ear 

Murmured:  "The  Lily  is  a  sight; 
Don't  you  believe  she  powders,  dear, 

To  make  herself  so  saintly  white? 
She  takes  some  trouble,  it  is  plain, 
Her  reputation  to  sustain." 

Said  Tulip  to  the  Lily  white: 

"About  the  Rose  —  what  do  you  think?  — 
Her  color?  Should  you  say  it's  quite  — 
Well,  quite  a  natural  shade  of  pink?" 
!' Natural!"  the  Lily  cried.  "Good  Saints! 
Why,  everybody  knows  she  paints!" 

Oliver  Herford 


142 


DA  THIEF 

Eef  poor  man  goes 
An'  steals  a  rose 

Een  Juna-time  — 
Wan  leetla  rose  — 
You  gon'  su'pose 

Dat  dat's  a  crime? 

Eh!  w'at?  Den  taka  look  at  me, 
For  here  bayfore  your  eyes  you  see 
Wan  thief  dat  ees  so  glad  an'  proud 
He  gona  brag  of  eet  out  loud! 
So  moocha  good  I  do,  an'  feel 
From  dat  wan  leetla  rose  I  steal, 
Dat  eef  I  gon'  to  jail  to-day 
Dey  could  no  tak'  my  joy  away. 
So,  lees'en!  here  ees  how  eet  com': 
Las'  night  w'en  I  am  walkin'  home 
From  work  een  hotta  ceety  street, 
Ees  sudden  com'  a  smal  so  sweet 
Eet  maka  heaven  een  my  nose  — 
I  look  an'  dere  I  see  da  rose! 
Not  wan,  but  manny,  fine  an'  tall, 
Dat  peep  at  me  above  da  wall. 
So,  too,  I  close  my  eyes  an'  find 
Anuddcr  peecture  een  my  mind; 
143 


I  see  a  house  dat  's  small  an'  hot 
Where  manny  pretta  thcengs  is  not, 
Where  leetla  woman,  good  an'  true, 
Ees  work  so  hard  da  whole  day  through, 
She  's  too  wore  out,  w'en  corn's  da  night, 
For  smile  an'  mak'  da  housa  bright. 

But,  presto!  now  I'm  home  an'  she 
Ees  settin'  on  da  step  weeth  me. 
Bambino,  sleepin'  on  her  breast,      \ 
Ees  newa  know  more  sweeta  rest, 
An'  newa  was  sooch  glad  su'prise 
Like  now  ees  shina  from  her  eyes; 
An'  all  baycause  to-night  she  wear 
Wan  leetla  rose  stuck  een  her  hair. 
She  ees  so  please'!  Eet  mak'  me  feel 
I  shoulda  sooner  learned  to  steal. 

Eef  "thief's"  my  name 
I  feel  no  shame; 

Eet  ees  no  crime  — 
Dat  rose  I  got. 
Eh!w'at?  0!not 

Een  Juna-time! 


T.  A.  Daly 


144 


RESULTS  AND  ROSES 

The  man  who  wants  a  garden  fair, 

Or  small  or  very  big, 
With  flowers  growing  here  and  there, 

Must  bend  his  back  and  dig. 

The  things  are  mighty  few  on  earth 

That  wishes  can  attain. 
Whate'er  we  want  of  any  worth 

We've  got  to  work  to  gain. 

It  matters  not  what  goal  you  seek, 

Its  secret  here  reposes: 
You've  got  to  dig  from  week  to  week 

To  get  Results  or  Roses. 

Edgar  A.  Guest 


UNDERNEATH  THE  BOUGH 


MIRACLE 

Yesterday  the  twig  was  brovm  and  bare; 
To-day  the  glint  of  green  is  there 
To-morrow  will  be  leaflets  spare  ; 
I  know  no  thing  so  wondrous  fair 
No  miracle  so  strangely  rare. 

I  wonder  what  will  next  be  there  ! 

L.  H.  Bailey 


THE  AWAKENING 

You  little,  eager,  peeping  thing  — 
You  embryonic  point  of  light 
Pushing  from  out  your  winter  night, 
How  you  do  make  my  pulses  sing! 
A  tiny  eye  amid  the  gloom  — 
The  merest  speck  I  scarce  had  seen  — 
So  doth  God's  rapture  rend  the  tomb 
In  this  wee  burst  of  April  green! 

And  lo,  't  is  here  —  and  lo!  'T  is  there  — 

Spurting  its  jets  of  sweet  desire 

In  upward  curling  threads  of  fire 

Like  tapers  kindling  all  the  air. 

Why,  scarce  it  seems  an  hour  ago 

These  branches  clashed  in  bitter  cold; 

What  Power  hath  set  their  veins  aglow? 

O  soul  of  mine,  be  bold,  be  bold! 

If  from  this  tree,  this  blackened  thing, 

Hard  as  the  floor  my  feet  have  prest, 

This  flame  of  joy  comes  clamoring 

In  hues  as  red  as  robin's  breast 

Waking  to  life  this  little  twig  — 

0  faith  of  mine,  be  big!  Be  big! 

Angela  Morgan 


149 


SHADE 

The  kindliest  thing  God  ever  made, 
His  hand  of  very  healing  laid 
Upon  a  fevered  world,  is  shade. 

His  glorious  company  of  trees 

Throw  out  their  mantles,  and  on  these 

The  dust-stained  wanderer  finds  ease. 

Green  temples,  closed  against  the  beat 
Of  noontime's  blinding  glare  and  heat, 
Open  to  any  pilgrim's  feet. 

The  white  road  blisters  in  the  sun; 
Now,  half  the  weary  journey  done, 
Enter  and  rest,  Oh,  weary  one! 

And  feel  the  dew  of  dawn  still  wet 
Beneath  thy  feet,  and  so  forget 
The  burning  highway's  ache  and  fret. 

This  is  God's  hospitality, 

And  whoso  rests  beneath  a  tree 

Hath  cause  to  thank  Him  gratefully. 

Theodosia  Garrison 

150 


SELECTION  FROM  "UNDER  THE  TREES" 

The  wonderful,  strong,  angelic  trees, 

With  their  blowing  locks  and  their  bared  great  knees 

And  nourishing  bosoms,  shout  all  together, 

And  rush  and  rock  through  the  glad  wild  weather. 

They  are  so  old  they  teach  me, 
With  their  strong  hands  they  reach  me, 
Into  their  breast  my  soul  they  take, 
And  keep  me  there  for  wisdom's  sake. 

They  teach  me  little  prayers; 
To-day  I  am  their  child; 
The  sweet  breath  of  their  innocent  airs 
Blows  through  me  strange  and  wild. 


I  never  feel  afraid 

Among  the  trees; 

Of  trees  are  houses  made; 

And  even  with  these, 

Unhewn,  untouched,  unseen, 

Is  something  homelike  in  the  safe  sweet  green, 

Intimate  in  the  shade. 

We  are  all  brothers!  Come,  let's  rest  awhile 
In  the  great  kiaship.   Underneath  the  trees 
Let's  be  at  home  once  more,  with  birds  and  bees 

151 


And  gnats  and  soil  and  stone.   With  these  I  must 
Acknowledge  family  ties.   Our  mother,  the  dust, 
With  wistful  and  investigating  eyes 
Searches  my  soul  for  the  old  sturdiness, 
Valor,  simplicity!  Stout  virtues  these, 

We  learned  at  her  dear  knees. 
Friend,  you  and  I 
Once  played  together  in  the  good  old  days. 
Do  you  remember?    Why,  brother,  down  what  wild  ways 
We  traveled,  when  — 

That's  right!  Draw  close  to  me! 
Come  now,  let's  tell  the  tale  beneath  the  old  roof -tree. 

Anna  Hempstead  Branch 


•f        A  GARDEN  FRIEND 

O  comrade  tree,  perhaps  alive  as  I  — 
One  process  lacking  of  this  mortal  clay  — 
Give  me  your  constant  outlook  to  the  sky, 
The  courtesy  and  cheer  that  fill  your  day. 

Your  noble  gift  of  perfect  service  teach; 
Your  wisdom  in  the  wild  storm  softly  bent 
Aware  't  will  end;  your  patience  that  can  reach 
Across  the  years  from  clod  to  firmament. 

Catherine  Markham  (Mrs.  Edwin  Markham) 
152 


A  LADY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

The  mountain  hemlock  droops  her  lacy  branches 
Oh,  so  tenderly 
In  the  summer  sun! 
Yet  she  has  power  to  baffle  avalanches  — 
She,  rising  slenderly 
Where  the  rivers  run. 

So  pliant  yet  so  powerful!  Oh,  see  her 
Spread  alluringly 
Her  thin  sea-green  dress! 
Now  from  white  winter's  thrall  the  sun  would  free  her 
To  bloom  unenduringly 
In  his  glad  caress. 

Harriet  Monroe 


THE  TREE 

Spread,  delicate  roots  of  my  tree, 
Feeling,  clasping,  thrusting,  growing; 
Sensitive  pilgrim  root  tips  roaming  everywhere. 
Into  resistant  earth  your  filaments  forcing, 
Down  in  the  dark,  unknown,  desirous: 

The  strange  ceaseless  life  of  you,  eating  and  drinking  of  earth, 
The  corrosive  secretions  of  you,  breaking  the  stuff  of  the  world  to 
your  will. 

153 


Tips  of  my  tree  in  the  springtime  bursting  to  terrible  beauty, 

Folded  green  life,  exquisite,  holy  exultant; 

I  feel  in  you  the  splendour,  the  autumn  of  ripe  fulfilment, 

Love  and  labour  and  death,  the  sacred  pageant  of  life. 

In  the  sweet  curled  buds  of  you, 

In  the  opening  glory  of  leaves,  tissues  moulded  of  green  light; 

Veined,  cut,  perfect  to  type, 

Each  one  like  a  child  of  high  lineage  bearing  the  sigil  of  race. 

The  open  hands  of  my  tree  held  out  to  the  touch  of  the  air 

As  love  that  opens  its  arms  and  waits  on  the  lover's  will; 

The  curtsey,  the  sway,  and  the  toss  of  the  spray  as  it  sports  with 

the  breeze; 
Rhythmical  whisper  of  leaves  that  murmur  and  move  in  the  light; 
Crying  of  wind  in  the  boughs,  the  beautiful  music  of  pain: 
Thus  do  you  sing  and  say 
The  sorrow,  the  effort,  the  sweet  surrender,  the  joy. 

Come!  tented  leaves  of  my  tree; 
High  summer  is  here,  the  moment  of  passionate  life, 
The  hushed,  the  maternal  hour. 
Deep  in  the  shaded  green  your  mystery  shielding, 
Heir  of  the  ancient  woods  and  parent  of  forests  to  be, 
Lo!  to  your  keeping  is  given  the  Father's  life-giving  thought; 
The  thing  that  is  dream  and  deed  and  carries  the  gift  of  the  past. 
For  this,  for  this,  great  tree, 

The  glory  of  maiden  leaves,  the  solemn  stretch  of  the  bough, 

154 


The  wise  persistent  roots 

Into  the  stuff  of  the  world  their  filaments  forcing, 

Breaking  the  earth  to  their  need. 

Tall  tree,  your  name  is  peace. 

You  are  the  channel  of  God: 

His  mystical  sap, 

Elixir  of  infinite  love,  syrup  of  infinite  power, 

Swelling  and  shaping,  brooding  and  hiding, 

With  out-thrust  of  delicate  joy,  with  pitiless  pageant  of  death, 

Sings  in  your  cells; 

Its  rhythmical  cycle  of  life 

In  you  is  fulfilled. 


Evelyn  Underhill 


"LOVELIEST  OF  TREES" 

Loveliest  of  trees,  the  cherry  now 
Is  hung  with  bloom  along  the  bough, 
And  stands  about  the  woodland  ride 
Wearing  white  for  Eastertide. 

Now,  of  my  threescore  years  and  ten, 
Twenty  will  not  come  again, 
And  take  from  seventy  springs  a  score, 
It  only  leaves  me  fifty  more. 
155 


And  since  to  look  at  things  in  bloom 
Fifty  springs  are  little  room, 
About  the  woodlands  I  will  go 
To  see  the  cherry  hung  with  snow. 

A.  E.  Housman 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  BIRCH 

I  am  the  dancer  of  the  wood 

I  shimmer  in  the  solitude 

Men  call  me  Birch  Tree,  yet  I  know 

In  other  days  it  was  not  so. 

I  am  a  Dryad  slim  and  white 

Who  danced  too  long  one  summer  night, 

And  the  Dawn  found  and  prisoned  me! 

Captive  I  moaned  my  liberty. 

But  let  the  wood  wind  flutes  begin 

Their  elfin  music,  faint  and  thin, 

I  sway,  I  bend,  retreat,  advance, 

And  evermore  —  I  dance!  I  dance! 

Arthuk  Ketchum 

FAMILY  TREES 

You  boast  about  your  ancient  line, 
But  listen,  stranger,  unto  mine: 

You  trace  your  lineage  afar, 
Back  to  the  heroes  of  a  war 
156 


Fought  that  a  country  might  be  free; 

Yea,  farther  —  to  a  stormy  sea 

Where  winter's  angry  billows  tossed, 

O'er  which  your  Pilgrim  Fathers  crossed. 

Nay,  more  —  through  yellow,  dusty  tomes 

You  trace  your  name  to  English  homes 

Before  the  distant,  unknown  West 

Lay  open  to  a  world's  behest; 

Yea,  back  to  days  of  those  Crusades 

When  Turk  and  Christian  crossed  their  blades, 

You  point  with  pride  to  ancient  names, 

To  powdered  sires  and  painted  dames; 

You  boast  of  this  —  your  family  tree; 

Now  listen,  stranger,  unto  me : 

When  armored  knights  and  gallant  squires, 

Your  own  beloved,  honored  sires, 

Were  in  their  infants'  blankets  rolled, 

My  fathers'  youngest  sons  were  old; 

When  they  broke  forth  in  infant  tears 

My  fathers'  heads  were  crowned  with  years, 

Yea,  ere  the  mighty  Saxon  host 

Of  which  you  sing  had  touched  the  coast, 

Looked  back  as  far  as  you  look  now. 

Yea,  when  the  Druids  trod  the  wood, 

My  venerable  fathers  stood 


l.i7 


And  gazed  through  misty  centuries 
As  far  as  even  Memory  sees. 
When  Britain's  eldest  first  beheld 
The  light,  my  fathers  then  were  eld. 
You  of  the  splendid  ancestry, 
Who  boast  about  your  family  tree, 

Consider,  stranger,  this  of  mine  — 
Bethink  the  lineage  of  a  Pine. 

Douglas  Malloch 


IDEALISTS 

Brothek  Tree: 

Why  do  you  reach  and  reach? 

Do  you  dream  some  day  to  touch  the  sky? 

Brother  Stream: 

Why  do  you  run  and  run? 

Do  you  dream  some  day  to  fill  the  sea? 

Brother  Bird: 

Why  do  you  sing  and  sing? 

Do  you  dream  — 

Young  Man : 

Why  do  you  talk  and  talk  and  talk  ? 

Alfred  Kreymborg 


158 


"DRAW  CLOSER,  0  YE  TREES" 

0  quiet  cottage  room, 
Whose  casements,  looking  o'er  the  garden-close, 
Are  hid  in  wildings  and  the  woodbine  bloom 

And  many  a  clambering  rose, 

Sweet  is  thy  light  subdued, 
Gracious  and  soft,  lingering  upon  my  book, 
As  that  which  shimmers  through  the  branched  wood 

Above  some  dreamful  nook! 

Leaning  within  my  chair, 
Through  the  curtain  I  can  see  the  stir  — 
The  gentle  undulations  of  the  air  — 

Sway  the  dark-layered  fir; 

And,  in  the  beechen  green, 
Mark  many  a  squirrel  romp  and  chirrup  loud; 
While  far  beyond,  the  chestnut-boughs  between, 

Floats  the  white  summer  cloud. 

Through  the  loopholes  in  the  leaves, 
Upon  the  yellow  slopes  of  far-off  farms, 
I  see  the  rhythmic  cradlcrs  and  the  sheaves 

Gleam  in  the  binders'  arms. 
159 


At  times  I  note,  nearby, 
The  flicker  tapping  on  some  hollow  bole; 
And  watch  the  sun,  against  the  sky, 

The  fluting  oriole; 

Or,  when  the  day  is  done, 
And  the  warm  splendors  make  the  oak-top  flush, 
Hear  him,  full-throated  in  the  setting  sun,  — 

The  darling  wildwood  thrush. 

O  sanctuary  shade 
Enfold  one  round!  I  would  no  longer  roam: 
Let  not  the  thought  of  wandering  e'er  invade 

This  still,  reclusive  home! 

Draw  closer,  O  ye  trees! 
Veil  from  my  sight  e'en  the  loved  mountain's  blue; 
The  world  may  be  more  fair  beyond  all  these, 

Yet  I  would  know  but  you! 

Lloyd  Mifflin 


TREES 

In  the  Garden  of  Eden,  planted  by  God, 
There  were  goodly  trees  in  the  springing  sod, 

Trees  of  beauty  and  height  and  grace, 
To  stand  in  splendor  before  His  face. 

l(iO 


Apple  and  hickory,  ash  and  pear, 
Oak  and  beech  and  the  tulip  rare, 

The  trembling  aspen,  the  noble  pine, 
The  sweeping  elm  by  the  river  line; 

Trees  for  the  birds  to  build  and  sing, 
And  the  lilac  tree  for  a  joy  in  spring; 

Trees  to  turn  at  the  frosty  call 

And  carpet  the  ground  for  their  Lord's  footfall; 

Trees  for  fruitage  and  fire  and  shade, 
Trees  for  the  cunning  builder's  trade; 

Wood  for  the  bow,  the  spear,  and  the  flail, 
The  keel  and  the  mast  of  the  daring  sail ; 

He  made  them  of  every  grain  and  girth, 
For  the  use  of  man  in  the  Garden  of  Earth. 

Then  lest  the  soul  should  not  lift  her  eyes 
From  the  gift  to  the  Giver  of  Paradise, 

On  the  crown  of  a  hill,  for  all  to  see, 
God  planted  a  scarlet  maple  tree. 

Bliss  Carman 
161 


THE  TREES 

There  's  something  in  a  noble  tree  — 

What  shall  I  say?  a  soul? 
For  't  is  not  form,  or  aught  we  see 

In  leaf  or  branch  or  bole. 
Some  presence,  though  not  understood, 

Dwells  there  alway,  and  seems 
To  be  acquainted  with  our  mood, 

And  mingles  in  our  dreams. 

I  would  not  say  that  trees  at  all 

Were  of  our  blood  and  race, 
Yet,  lingering  where  their  shadows  fall, 

I  sometimes  think  I  trace 
A  kinship,  whose  far-reaching  root 

Grew  when  the  world  began, 
And  made  them  best  of  all  things  mute 

To  be  the  friends  of  man. 

Held  down  by  whatsoever  might 

Unto  an  earthly  sod, 
They  stretch  forth  arms  for  air  and  light, 

As  we  do  after  God; 
And  when  in  all  their  boughs  the  breeze 

Moans  loud,  or  softly  sings, 
As  our  own  hearts  in  us,  the  trees 

Are  almost  human  things. 
162 


What  wonder  in  the  days  that  burned 

With  old  poetic  dream, 
Dead  Phaethon's  fair  sisters  turned 

To  poplars  by  the  stream! 
In  many  a  light  cotillion  stept 

The  trees  when  fluters  blew; 
And  many  a  tear,  't  is  said,  they  wept 

For  human  sorrow  too. 

Mute,  said  I?  They  are  seldom  thus; 

They  whisper  each  to  each, 
And  each  and  all  of  them  to  us, 
In  varied  forms  of  speech. 
"Be  serious,"  the  solemn  pine 

Is  saying  overhead; 
"Be  beautiful,"  the  elm-tree  fine 
Has  always  finely  said; 

"Be  quick  to  feel,"  the  aspen  still 
Repeats  the  whole  day  long; 
While,  from  the  green  slope  of  the  hill, 

The  oak-tree  adds,  "Be  strong." 
When  with  my  burden,  as  I  hear 

Their  distant  voices  call, 
I  rise,  and  listen,  and  draw  near, 
"Be  patient,"  say  they  all. 

Samuel  Valentine  Cole. 


THE  POPLARS 

My  poplars  arc  like  ladies  trim, 
Each  conscious  of  her  own  estate; 
In  costume  somewhat  over  prim, 
In  manner  cordially  sedate, 
Like  two  old  neighbours  met  to  chat 
Beside  my  garden  gate. 

My  stately  old  aristocrats  — 
I  fancy  still  their  talk  must  be 
Of  rose-conserves  and  Persian  cats, 
And  lavender  and  Indian  tea;  — 
I  wonder  sometimes  as  I  pass 
If  they  approve  of  me. 

I  give  them  greeting  night  and  morn, 
I  like  to  think  they  answer,  too, 
With  that  benign  assurance  born 
When  youth  gives  age  the  reverence  due, 
And  bend  their  wise  heads  as  I  go 
As  courteous  ladies  do. 

Long  may  you  stand  before  my  door, 
Oh,  kindly  neighbours  garbed  in  green, 
And  bend  with  rustling  welcome  o'er 
The  many  friends  who  pass  between; 
And  where  the  little  children  play 
Look  down  with  gracious  mien. 

Theodosia  Garrison 
164 


TREES 

I  thixk  that  I  shall  never  see 
A  poem  lovely  as  a  tree. 

A  tree  whose  hungry  mouth  is  prest 
Against  the  earth's  sweet  flowing  breast; 

A  tree  that  looks  at  God  all  day, 
And  lifts  her  leafy  arms  to  pray; 

A  tree  that  may  in  Summer  wear 
A  nest  of  robins  in  her  hair; 

Upon  whose  bosom  snow  has  lain; 
Who  intimately  lives  with  rain. 

Poems  are  made  by  fools  like  me, 
But  only  God  can  make  a  tree. 

Joyce  Kilmer 


THE  LOST  GARDENS  OF  THE  HEART 


AS  IN  A  ROSE-JAR 

As  in  a  rose-jar  filled  with  petals  sweet 
Blown  long  ago  in  some  old  garden  place, 
Mayhap,  where  you  and  I,  a  little  space 

Drank  deep  of  love  and  knew  that  love  was  fleet  — 

Or  leaves  once  gathered  from  a  lost  retreat 
By  one  who  never  will  again  retrace 
Her  silent  footsteps  —  one,  whose  gentle  face 

Was  fairer  than  the  roses  at  her  feet ; 

So,  deep  within  the  vase  of  memory 
I  keep  my  dust  of  roses  fresh  and  dear 
As  in  the  days  before  I  knew  the  smart 
Of  time  and  death.  Nor  aught  can  take  from  me 
The  haunting  fragrance  that  still  lingers  here  — 
As  in  a  rose-jar,  so  within  the  heart  I 

Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr. 


IN  AN  OLD  GARDEN 

Old  phantoms  haunt  it  of  the  long-ago; 

Old  ghosts  of  old-time  lovers  and  of  dreams : 

Within  the  quiet  sunlight  there,  meseems, 

I  see  them  walking  where  those  lilies  blow. 

The  hardy  phlox  sways  to  some  garments'  flow; 

The  salvia  there  with  sudden  scarlet  streams, 

Caught  from  some  ribbon  of  some  throat  that  gleams, 

Petunia  fair,  in  flounce  and  furbelow. 

I  seem  to  hear  their  whispers  in  each  wind 

That  wanders  'mid  the  flowers.  There  they  stand! 

Among  the  shadows  of  that  apple  tree! 

They  are  not  dead,  whom  still  it  keeps  in  mind, 

This  garden,  planted  by  some  lovely  hand 

That  keeps  it  fragrant  with  its  memory. 

Madison  Cawein 

THE  GARDEN  OF  DREAMS 

My  heart  is  a  garden  of  dreams 
Where  you  walk  when  day  is  done, 
Fair  as  the  royal  flowers, 
Calm  as  the  lingering  sun. 

Never  a  drouth  comes  there, 
Nor  any  frost  that  mars, 
Only  the  wind  of  love 
Under  the  early  .stars,  — 

169 


The  living  breath  that  moves 
Whispering  to  and  fro, 
Like  the  voice  of  God  in  the  dusk 
Of  the  garden  long  ago. 

Bliss  Carman 


HOMESICK 

0  my  garden!  lying  whitely  in  the  moonlight  and  the  dew, 

Far  across  the  leagues  of  distance  flies  my  heart  to-night  to 

you, 
And  I  see  your  stately  lilies  in  the  tender  radiance  gleam 
With  a  dim,  mysterious  splendor,  like  the  angels  of  a  dream! 

1  can  see  the  stealthy  shadows  creep  along  the  ivied  wall, 

And  the  bosky  depths  of  verdure  where  the  drooping  vine- 
leaves  fall, 

And  the  tall  trees  standing  darkly  with  their  crowns  against  the 
sky, 

While  overhead  the  harvest  moon  goes  slowly  sailing  by. 

I  can  see  the  trellised  arbor,  and  the  roses'  crimson  glow, 
And  the  lances  of  the  larkspurs  all  glittering,  row  on  row, 
And  the  wilderness  of  hollyhocks,  where  brown  bees  seek  their 

spoil, 
And  butterflies  dance  all  day  long,  in  glad  and  gay  turmoil. 

170 


O,  the  broad  paths  running  straightly,  north  and  south  and  east 

and  west! 
O,  the  wild  grape  climbing  sturdily  to  reach  the  oriole's  nest! 
0,  the  bank  where  wild  flowers  blossom,  ferns  nod  and  mosses 

creep 
In  a  tangled  maze  of  beauty  over  all  the  wooded  steep! 

Just  beyond  the  moonlit  garden  I  can  see  the  orchard  trees, 
With  their  dark  boughs  overladen,  stirring  softly  in  the  breeze, 
And  the  shadows  on  the  greensward,  and  within  the  pasture 

bars 
The  white  sheep  huddling  quietly  beneath  the  pallid  stars. 

0  my  garden!  lying  whitely  in  the  moonlight  and  the  dew, 
Far  across  the  restless  ocean  flies  my  yearning  heart  to  you, 
And  I  turn  from  storied  castle,  hoary  fane,  and  ruined  shrine, 
To  the  dear,  familiar  pleasaunce  where  my  own  white  lilies 
shine  — 

With  a  vague,  half-startled  wonder  if  some  night  in  Paradise, 
From  the  battlements  of  heaven  I  shall  turn  my  longing  eyes 
All  the  dim,  resplendent  spaces  and  the  mazy  stardrifts  through 
To  my  garden  lying  whitely  in  the  moonlight  and  the  dew! 

Julia  C.  R.  Dorr 


171 


THE  WAYS  OF  TIME 

As  butterflies  are  but  winged  flowers, 
Half  sorry  for  their  change,  who  fain, 

So  still  and  long  they  live  on  leaves, 
Would  be  thought  flowers  again.  — 

E'en  so  my  thoughts,  that  should  expand, 

And  grow  to  higher  themes  above, 
Return  like  butterflies  to  lie 

On  the  old  things  I  love. 

William  H.  Davies 

A  MIDSUMMER  GARDEN 

There  is  a  little  garden-close, 

Girdled  by  golden  apple  trees, 
That  through  the  long  sweet  summer  hours 

Is  haunted  by  the  hum  of  bees. 

The  poppy  tosses  here  its  torch, 

And  the  tall  bee-balm  flaunts  its  fire, 

And  regally  the  larkspur  lifts 
The  slender  azure  of  its  spire. 

And  from  the  phlox  and  mignonette 

Rich  attars  drift  on  every  hand; 
And  when  star-vestured  twilight  comes 

The  pale  moths  weave  a  saraband. 
172 


And  crickets  in  the  aisles  of  grass 

With  their  clear  fifing  pierce  the  hush; 

And  somewhere  you  may  hear  anear 
The  passion  of  the  hermit-thrush. 

It  is  a  place  where  dreams  convene, 
Dreams  of  the  dead  years  gone  astray, 

Of  love  and  loveliness  borne  back 
From  some  forgotten  yesterday. 

It  is  a  memory-hallowed  spot 

Where  joy  assumes  its  vernal  guise, 
And  two  walk  silent  side  by  side, 

Youth's  glory  shining  in  their  eyes. 

Clinton  Scollard 


THE  WHITE  ROSE 

This  is  the  spirit  flower, 

The  ghost  of  an  old  regret; 
All  night  she  stands  in  the  garden-close, 

And  her  face  with  tears  is  wet. 
But  I  love  the  pale  white  rose, 

For  she  always  seems  to  me 
A  pallid  nun  who  dreams  all  day 

Of  a  distant  memory. 
173 


Alas!  how  well  I  know 

That  every  garden  spot 
Is  haunted  by  a  gentle  ghost 

Who  will  not  be  forgot. 
In  the  garden  of  the  heart, 

Ere  the  sun  of  life  is  set, 
0  many  a  wild  rose  blooms  and  dreams 

Of  many  an  old  regret! 

Charles  Hanson  Towne 

A  HAUNTED  GARDEN 

Between  the  moss  and  stone 

The  lonely  lilies  rise; 
Wasted  and  overgrown 

The  tangled  garden  lies. 
Weeds  climb  about  the  stoop 

And  clutch  the  crumbling  walls; 
The  drowsy  grasses  droop  — 

The  night  wind  falls. 

The  place  is  like  a  wood ; 

No  sign  is  there  to  tell 
Where  rose  and  iris  stood 

That  once  she  loved  so  well. 
Where  phlox  and  asters  grew, 

A  leafless  thornbush  stands, 
174 


And  shrubs  that  never  knew 
Her  tender  hands.  .  .  . 

Over  the  broken  fence 

The  moonbeams  trail  their  shrouds; 
Their  tattered  cerements 

Cling  to  the  gauzy  clouds, 
In  ribbons  frayed  and  thin  — 

And  startled  by  the  light, 
Silence  shrinks  deeper  in 

The  depths  of  night. 

Useless  he  spades  and  rakes; 

Rust 's  on  the  garden-tools. 
Yet,  where  the  moonlight  makes 

Nebulous  silver  pools, 
A  ghostly  shape  is  cast  — 

Something  unseen  has  stirred  .  .  . 
Was  it  a  breeze  that  passed? 

Was  it  a  bird? 

Dead  roses  lift  their  heads 

Out  of  a  grassy  tomb; 
From  ruined  pansy-beds 

A  thousand  pansies  bloom. 
The  gate  is  opened  wide  — 

The  garden  that  has  been, 

Now  blossoms  like  a  bride  .  .  . 

Who  entered  in  1 

Louis  Untermeyer 

175 


THE  DUSTY  HOUR-GLASS 

It  had  been  a  trim  garden, 

With  parterres  of  fringed  pinks  and  gillyflowers, 

and  smooth-raked  walks. 
Silks  and  satins  had  brushed  the  box  edges 

of  its  alleys. 
The  curved  stone  lips  of  its  fishponds 

had    held  the  rippled    reflections  of   tricorns  and 
powdered  periwigs. 
The  branches  of  its  trees  had  glittered  with  lanterns, 

and  swayed  to  the  music  of  flutes  and  violins. 

Now,  the  fishponds  are  green  with  scum; 
And  paths  and  flower-beds 

are  run  together  and  overgrown. 
Only  at  one  end  is  an  octagonal  Summerhouse 

not  yet  in  ruins. 
Through  the  lozenged  panes  of  its  windows, 

you  can  see  the  interior: 
A  dusty  bench;  a  fireplace, 

with  a  lacing  of  letters  carved  in  the  stone  above  it; 
A  broken  ball  of  worsted 

rolled  away  into  a  corner. 

Dolci,  dolci,  i  giorni  passati! 

Amy  Lowell 
176 


THE  SONG  OF  WANDERING  AENGUS 

I  went  out  to  the  hazel  wood 
Because  a  fire  was  in  my  head, 
And  cut  and  peeled  a  hazel  wand, 
And  hooked  a  berry  to  a  thread; 
And  when  white  moths  were  on  the  wing, 
And  moth-like  stars  were  flickering  out, 
I  dropped  the  berry  in  a  stream, 
And  caught  a  little  silver  trout. 

When  I  had  laid  it  on  the  floor, 
I  went  to  blow  the  fire  a-flame, 
But  something  rustled  on  the  floor, 
And  some  one  called  me  by  my  name: 
It  had  become  a  glimmering  girl, 
With  apple-blossom  in  her  hair, 
Who  called  me  by  my  name  and  ran 
And  faded  through  the  brightening  air. 

Though  I  am  old  with  wandering 
Through  hollow  lands  and  hilly  lands, 
I  will  find  out  where  she  has  gone, 
And  kiss  her  lips  and  take  her  hands; 
And  walk  among  long  dappled  grass, 
And  pluck  till  time  and  times  are  done 
The  silver  apples  of  the  moon, 
The  golden  apples  of  the  sun. 

W.  B.  Yeats 
177 


THE  THREE  CHERRY  TREES 

There  were  three  cherry  trees  once, 
Grew  in  a  garden  all  shady; 
And  there  for  delight  of  so  gladsome  a  sight, 
Walked  a  most  beautiful  lady, 
Dreamed  a  most  beautiful  lady. 

Birds  in  those  branches  did  sing, 
Blackbird  and  throstle  and  linnet, 
But  she  walking  there  was  by  far  the  most  fair  — 
Lovelier  than  all  else  within  it, 
Blackbird  and  throstle  and  linnet. 

But  blossoms  to  berries  do  come, 
All  hanging  on  stalks  light  and  slender, 
And  one  long  summer's  day  charmed  that  lady  away, 
With  vows  sweet  and  merry  and  tender; 
A  lover  with  voice  low  and  tender. 

Moss  and  lichen  the  green  branches  deck; 
Weeds  nod  in  its  paths  green  and  shady; 
Yet  a  light  footstep  seems  there  to  wander  in  dreams, 
The  ghost  of  that  beautiful  lady, 
That  happy  and  beautiful  lady. 

Walter  de  la  Mare 


178 


OLD  GARDENS 

The  white  rose  tree  that  spent  its  musk 

For  lovers'  sweeter  praise, 
The  stately  walks  we  sought  at  dusk, 

Have  missed  thee  many  days. 

Again,  with  once-familiar  feet, 

I  tread  the  old  parterre  — 
But,  ah,  its  bloom  is  now  less  sweet 

Than  when  thy  face  was  there. 

I  hear  the  birds  of  evening  call; 

I  take  the  wild  perfume; 
I  pluck  a  rose  —  to  let  it  fall 

And  perish  in  the  gloom. 

Arthur  Upson 


THE  BLOOMING  OF  THE  ROSE 
What  is  it  like,  to  be  a  rose? 

Old  Roses,  softly,  "Try  and  see." 

Nay,  I  will  tarry.  Let  me  be 
In  my  green  peacefulness  and  smile. 
I  will  stay  here  and  dream  awhile. 
179 


'T  is  well  for  little  buds  to  dream, 
Dream  —  dream  —  who  knows  — 
Say,  is  it  good  to  be  a  rose? 
Old  roses,  tell  me!  Is  it  good? 

Old  Roses,  very  softly,  "Good." 

I  am  afraid  to  be  a  rose! 
This  little  sphere  wherein  I  wait, 
Curled  up  and  small  and  delicate, 
Lets  in  a  twilight  of  pure  green, 
Wherein  are  dreams  of  night  and  morn 
And  the  sweet  stillness  of  a  world 
Where  all  things  are  that  are  unborn. 

Old  Roses,  "Better  to  be  born." 

I  cannot  be  a  bud  for  long. 

My  sheath  is  like  a  heart  full  blown, 

And  I,  the  silence  of  a  song 

Withdrawn  into  that  heart  alone, 

Well  knowing  that  it  shall  be  sung. 

Outside  the  great  world  comes  and  goes  — 

I  think  I  doubt,  to  be  a  rose  — 

Old  Roses,  "Doubt?  To  be  a  Rose!" 

Anna  Hempstead  Branch 

180 


THE  GARDEN  OF  MNEMOSYNE 

There  are  no  roses  in  the  garden  now, 
The  summer  birds  have  vanished  oversea, 

The  ashen  keys  hang  rusty  on  the  bough, 

Autumn's  gold  ensigns  flame  from  tree  to  tree. 

Music  and  perfume  sleep,  and  light  is  fled, 
Autumn's  fine  gold  is  faery  gold,  we  know. 

Where  shall  we  turn  for  joy  when  flowers  are  dead, 
When  birds  are  silent,  and  the  cold  winds  blow? 

The  summer  birds  have  vanished  oversea, 
But  Memory's  palace-courts  are  full  of  song; 

There  sings  a  nightingale  for  you  and  me, 
And  there  a  hidden  lute  plays  all  day  long. 

There  are  no  roses  in  the  garden  now, 
But  Memory's  garden  grows  each  day  more  fair; 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars  her  orchard  close  endow, 
And  there  bloom  roses  —  roses  everywhere. 

Rosamund  Marriott  Watson 

BALLADE  OF  THE  DREAMLAND  ROSE 

Where  the  waves  of  burning  cloud  arc  rolled 
On  the  further  shore  of  the  sunset  sea, 

In  a  land  of  wonder  that  none  behold, 
There  blooms  a  rose  on  the  Dreamland  Tree 

1H1 


That  stands  in  the  Garden  of  Mystery 
Where  the  River  of  Slumber  softly  flows; 

And  whenever  a  dream  has  come  to  be, 
A  petal  falls  from  the  Dreamland  Rose. 

In  the  heart  of  the  tree,  on  a  branch  of  gold, 

A  silvern  bird  sings  endlessly 
A  mystic  song  that  is  ages  old, 

A  mournful  song  in  a  minor  key, 
Full  of  the  glamour  of  faery; 

And  whenever  a  dreamer's  ears  unclose 
To  the  sound  of  that  distant  melody, 

A  petal  falls  from  the  Dreamland  Rose. 

Dreams  and  visions  in  hosts  untold 

Throng  around  on  the  moonlit  lea: 
Dreams  of  age  that  are  calm  and  cold, 

Dreams  of  youth  that  are  fair  and  free  — 
Dark  with  a  lone  heart's  agony, 

Bright  with  a  hope  that  no  one  knows  — 
And  whenever  a  dream  and  a  dream  agree, 

A  petal  falls  from  the  Dreamland  Rose. 

ENVOI 

Princess,  you  gaze  in  a  reverie 
Where  the  drowsy  firelight  redly  glows; 

Slowly  you  raise  your  eyes  to  me  .  .  . 

A  petal  falls  from  the  Dreamland  Rose. 

Brian  Hooker 
182 


THE  FLOWERS  OF  JUNE 

These  flowers  of  June 

The  gates  of  memory  unbar; 
These  flowers  of  June 
Such  old-time  harmonies  retune, 

I  fain  would  keep  the  gates  ajar, 

So  full  of  sweet  enchantment  are 
These  flowers  of  June. 

Was  it  the  bloom  of  the  laurel  sprays, 

That  wakened  remembrance  of  singing  birds? 

Or,  was  it  the  charm  of  remembered  words, 
That  set  my  heart  singing  through  somber  days? 

I  longed  for  the  summer-time,  flower  and  tree; 

And  lo!  the  summer-time  came  with  thee. 
The  bloom  is  no  more,  but  the  charm  still  stays. 

James  Terry  White 

IN  MEMORY'S  GARDEN 

There  is  a  garden  in  the  twilight  lands 
Of  Memory,  where  troops  of  butterflies 

Flutter  adown  the  cypress  paths,  and  bands 
Of  flowers  mysterious  droop  their  drowsy  eyes. 

There  through  the  silken  hush  come  footfalls  faint 
And  hurried  through  the  vague  parterres,  and  sighs 

183 


Whispering  of  rapture  or  of  sweet  complaint 
Like  ceaseless  parle  of  bees  and  butterflies. 

And  by  one  lonely  pathway  steal  I  soon 
To  find  the  flowerings  of  the  old  delight 

Our  hearts  together  knew  —  when  lo,  the  moon 
Turns  all  the  cypress  alleys  into  white. 

Thomas  Walsh 


SERENADE 

Dark  is  the  iris  meadow, 

Dark  is  the  ivory  tower, 

And  lightly  the  young  moth's  shadow 

Sleeps  on  the  passion-flower. 

Gone  are  our  day's  red  roses. 
So  lovely  and  lost  and  few, 
But  the  first  star  uncloses 
A  silver  bud  in  the  blue. 

Night,  and  a  flame  in  the  embers 
Where  the  seal  of  the  years  was  set,  — 
When  the  almond-bough  remembers 
How  shall  my  heart  forget? 

Marjorie  L.  C.  Pickthall 
184 


"WHAT  HEART  BUT  FEARS  A  FRAGRANCE?" 

What  heart  but  fears  a  fragrance? 

Alien  they 
Who  breathe  in  the  white  lilac  only  May; 
For  there  be  other  spirits  unto  whom 
Fate's  kiss  lies  dreaming  in  each  stray  perfume! 

Who  mock  at  ghosts  of  odour  —  poor  they  be! 
Bereft  the  scented  balms  of  memory, 
For  unto  one  in  April's  rain-blest  earth 
There  starts  for  aye  the  sharp,  glad  cry  of  birth; 
And  Love  will  find  in  rooms  unbarred  for  years 
Familiar  sweetness  loosing  sudden  tears, 
Clasping  the  will  in  mastering  embrace 
As  in  the  presence  of  a  phantom  grace. 

Then  there  be  odours  pungent  —  fires  in  Fall 
The  gipsying  of  boyhood  to  recall ; 
And  there  be  perfumes  holy  —  nay,  but  one 
Whose  pang  is  like  none  other  'neath  the  sun 
To  drown  the  sinking  senses  in  a  joy 
Beyond  all  time  to  weaken  or  destroy! 
Odours  there  be  that  swoon,  entreat,  caress  — 
Elusive  thrall,  to  doom  or  stab  or  bless; 
Each  vagrant  scent  that  holds  the  breath  in  fee 
Doth  wed  the  heart  in  Life's  eternity. 

185 


Who  fear  no  wraiths  of  fragrance  —  sorry  they; 
Who  breathe  in  lilac  odours  only  May; 
For  there  be  other  mortals  unto  whom 
White  magic  wanders  in  each  stray  perfume. 

Martha  Gilbert  Dickinson  Bianchi 

YEARS  AFTERWARD 

It  is  not  sight  or  sound 

That,  when  a  heart  forgets, 

Most  makes  it  to  remember: 

It 's  some  old  poignant  scent  re-found  — 

Like  breath  of  April  violets, 

Or  apples  of  September. 

It  is  n't  song  or  scene 

That  stirs  the  tears  again: 

It's  brush  smoke  from  the  hills  at  night, 

Spicy  and  sweet;  or  that  wet,  keen, 

Long  lost  aroma  of  delight, 

Fresh  ploughed  fields  after  rain. 

Nancy  Byrd  Turneb 

AUTUMNAL 

Across  the  scented  garden  of  my  dreams 
Where  roses  grew,  Time  passes  like  a  thief, 

Among  my  trees  his  silver  sickle  gleams, 
The  grass  is  stained  with  many  a  ruddy  leaf; 
186 


And  on  cold  winds  the  petals  float  away 
That  were  the  pride  of  June  and  her  array. 

The  bare  boughs  weave  a  net  upon  the  sky 
To  catch  Love's  wings  and  his  fair  body  bruise; 

There  are  no  flowers  in  the  rosary  — 
No  song-birds  in  the  mournful  avenues; 

Though  on  the  sodden  air  not  lightly  breaks 

The  elegy  of  Youth,  whom  love  forsakes. 

Ah,  Time!  one  flower  of  all  my  garden  spare, 
One  rose  of  all  the  roses,  that  in  this 

I  may  possess  my  love's  perfumed  hair 
And  all  the  crimson  secrets  of  her  kiss. 

Grant  me  one  rose  that  I  may  drink  its  wine, 

And  from  her  lips  win  the  last  anodyne. 

For  I  have  learnt  too  many  things  to  live, 
And  I  have  loved  too  many  things  to  die; 

But  all  my  barren  acres  I  would  give 
For  one  red  blossom  of  eternity, 

To  animate  the  darkness  and  delight 

The  spaces  and  the  silences  of  night. 

But  dreams  are  tender  flowers  that  in  their  birth 
Are  very  near  to  death,  and  I  shall  reap, 

187 


Who  planted  wonder,  unavailing  earth, 

Harsh  thorns  and  miserable  husks  of  sleep. 
I  have  had  dreams,  but  have  not  conquered  Time, 
And  love  shall  vanish  like  an  empty  rhyme. 

Richard  Middleton 


"OH,  TELL  ME  HOW  MY  GARDEN  GROWS" 

Oh,  tell  me  how  my  garden  grows, 
Now  I  no  more  may  labor  there; 

Do  still  the  lily  and  the  rose 

Bloom  on  without  my  fostering  care? 

Do  peonies  blush  as  deep  with  pride, 
The  larkspurs  burn  as  bright  a  blue, 

And  velvet  pansies  stare  as  wide 
I  wonder,  as  they  used  to  do? 

The  tender  things  that  would  not  blow 
Unless  I  coaxed  them,  do  they  raise 

Their  petals  in  a  sturdy  row, 
Forgetful,  to  the  stranger's  gaze? 

Or  do  they  show  a  paler  shade, 

And  sigh  a  little  in  the  wind 
For  one  whose  sheltering  presence  made 

Their  step-dame  Nature  less  unkind? 
188 


Oh,  tell  me  how  my  garden  grows, 
Where  I  no  more  may  take  delight, 

And  if  some  dream  of  me  it  knows, 
Who  dream  of  it  by  day  and  night. 

Mildred  Howells 


HER  GARDEN 

This  was  her  dearest  walk  last  year.  Her  hands 

Set  all  the  tiny  plants,  and  tenderly 

Pressed  firm  the  unfamiliar  soil;  and  she 

It  was  who  watered  them  at  evening  time. 

She  loved  them;  and  I  too,  because  of  her. 

And  now  another  June  has  come,  while  I 

Am  walking  in  the  shadow,  sad,  alone. 

Yet  when  I  reach  the  rose-path  that  was  hers, 

And  breathe  the  fragrancy  of  bud  and  bloom, 

She  stands  beside;  the  murmur  of  the  leaves, 

The  well-remembered  rustle  of  her  gown, 

And  low  her  whisper  comes,  "My  dear!  My  dear!" 

This  is  her  garden.  Only  she  and  I  — 

But  always  we  —  may  walk  its  hallowed  ways; 

And  all  the  thoughts  she  planted  in  my  heart, 

Sunned  with  her  smile,  and  chastened  with  her  tears, 

Again  have  blossomed  —  love's  perennials. 

Eldredge  Denison 


iho 


THE  LITTLE  GHOST 

I  knew  her  for  a  little  ghost 

That  in  my  garden  walked,  — 
The  wall  is  high  —  higher  than  most  — 

And  the  green  gate  was  locked; 

And  yet  I  did  not  think  of  that 

Till  after  she  was  gone; 
I  knew  her  by  the  broad  white  hat, 

All  ruffled,  she  had  on, 

By  the  dear  ruffles  round  her  feet, 
By  her  small  hands,  that  hung 

In  their  lace  mitts,  austere  and  sweet, 
Her  gown's  white  folds  among. 

I  watched  to  see  if  she  would  stay, 
What  she  would  do,  —  and,  oh, 

She  looked  as  if  she  liked  the  way 
I  let  my  garden  grow! 

She  bent  above  my  favorite  mint 

With  conscious  garden  grace, 
She  smiled  and  smiled,  —  there  was  no  hint 

Of  sadness  in  her  face; 

She  held  her  gown  on  either  side, 
To  let  her  slippers  show, 
190 


And  up  the  walk  she  went  with  pride, 
The  way  great  ladies  go; 

And  where  the  wall  is  built  in  new, 

And  is  of  ivy  bare, 
She  paused,  —  then  opened  and  passed  through 

A  gate  that  once  was  there. 

Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay 


ROSES  IN  THE  SUBWAY 

A  wan-cheeked  girl  with  faded  eyes 
Came  stumbling  down  the  crowded  car, 

Clutching  her  burden  to  her  breast 
As  though  she  held  a  star. 

Roses,  I  swear  it!  Red  and  sweet 

And  struggling  from  her  pinched  white  hands, 
Roses  ...  like  captured  hostages 

From  far  and  fairy  lands! 

The  thunder  of  the  rushing  train 
Was  like  a  hush.  .  .  .  The  flower  scent 

Breathed  faintly  on  the  stale,  whirled  air 
Like  some  dim  sacrament  — 


101 


I  saw  a  garden  stretching  out 

And  morning  on  it  like  a  crown  — 

And  o'er  a  bed  of  crimson  bloom 
My  mother  .  .  .  stooping  down. 

Dana  Burnet 


THE  GARDEN  OVER-SEAS 


A  GARDEN  PRAYER 

That  we  are  mortals  and  on  earth  must  dwell 

Thau  knowest,  Allah,  and  didst  give  us  bread  — 

And  remembering  of  our  souls  didst  give  us  food  of  flowers  — 

Thy  name  be  hallowed. 

Thomas  Walsh 


IN  THE  GARDEN-CLOSE  AT  MEZRA 

In  the  garden-close  at  Mezra, 

When  the  cactus  was  in  flower, 
We  sat  apart  together 

Through  the  languid  noonday  hour. 

I  was  her  Arab  lover, 

(Of  course  it  was  all  in  play!) 
And  I  called  her  "Star-of-Twilight," 

And  I  called  her  "  Dream-of-Day." 

She  —  has  she  quite  forgotten? 

Soothly,  I  do  not  know 
If  ever  she  tenderly  opens 

The  volume  of  Long  Ago. 

But  I  —  I  can  still  remember 

Her  lips  like  the  cactus  flower 
In  the  garden-close  at  Mezra 

At  the  languid  noonday  hour! 

Clinton  Scollard 

THE  CACTUS 

The  scarlet  flower,  with  never  a  sister-leaf, 
Stemless,  springs  from  the  edge  of  the  Cactus-thorn: 
Thus  from  the  rugged  wounds  of  desperate  grief 
A  beautiful  Thought,  perfect  and  pure,  is  born. 

Laurence  Hope 

195 


THE  WHITE  PEACOCK 

Here  where  the  sunlight 
Floodeth  the  garden, 
Where  the  pomegranate 
Reareth  its  glory 
Of  gorgeous  blossom; 
Where  the  oleanders 
Dream  through  the  noontides; 
And,  like  surf  o'  the  sea 
Round  cliffs  of  basalt, 
The  thick  magnolias 
In  billowy  masses 

Front  the  sombre  green  of  the  ilexes: 
Here  where  the  heat  lies 
Pale  blue  in  the  hollows, 
Where  blue  are  the  shadows 
On  the  fronds  of  the  cactus, 
Where  pale  blue  the  gleaming 
Of  fir  and  cypress, 
With  the  cones  upon  them 
Amber  or  glowing  with  virgin  gold: 
Here  where  the  honey-flower 
Makes  the  heat  fragrant, 
As  though  from  the  gardens 
Of  Gulistan, 

Where  the  bulbul  singeth 
19G 


Through  a  mist  of  roses 
A  breath  were  borne: 
Here  where  the  dream-flowers, 
The  cream-white  poppies 
Silently  waver, 
And  where  the  Scirocco, 
Faint  in  the  hollows, 

Foldeth  his  soft  white  wings  in  the  sunlight, 
And  lieth  sleeping 
Deep  in  the  heart  of 
A  sea  of  white  violets: 

Here,  as  the  breath,  as  the  soul  of  this  beauty, 
Moveth  in  silence,  and  dreamlike,  and  slowly, 
White  as  a  snow-drift  in  mountain-valleys 
When  softly  upon  it  the  gold  light  lingers: 
White  as  the  foam  o'  the  sea  that  is  driven 
O'er  billows  of  azure  agleam  with  sun-yellow: 
Cream- white  and  soft  as  the  breasts  of  a  girl, 
Moves  the  White  Peacock,  as  though  through  the  noontide 
A  dream  of  the  moonlight  were  real  for  a  moment. 
Dim  on  the  beautiful  fan  that  he  spreadeth, 
Foldeth  and  spreadeth  abroad  in  the  sunlight, 
Dim  on  the  cream-white  are  blue  adumbrations, 
Shadows  so  pale  in  their  delicate  blueness 
That  visions  they  seem  as  of  vanishing  violets, 
The  fragrant  white  violets  veined  with  azuro, 
Pale,  pale  as  the  breath  of  blue  smoke  in  far  woodlands. 

15)7 


Here,  as  the  breath,  as  the  soul  of  this  beauty, 

White  as  the  cloud  through  the  heats  of  the  noontide 

Moves  the  White  Peacock. 

William  Sharp 


AT  ISOLA  BELLA 

Once  at  Isola  Bella, 

With  sunset  in  the  sky, 
We  stood  on  the  topmost  terrace  — 

You  and  I. 

Around  us  Lago  Maggiore, 

Incomparably  fair, 
Gave  back  the  hues  of  heaven 

To  the  Italian  air. 

Then  up  the  marble  terrace 

Below  the  cypress  trees 
Came  a  flock  of  milk-white  peacocks 

With  fans  spread  to  the  breeze. 

Rose-pink  on  each  outspread  feather, 
Rose-pink  upon  the  crest,  — 

Never  were  birds  in  plumage 
So  ravishingly  drest! 

Wherever  we  walked  they  followed, 
Stately  at  our  feet, 
198 


No  picture  so  enchanting 
Will  any  hour  repeat. 

And  here  in  the  murky  city 

Those  milk-white  peacocks  seem 

To  follow  and  follow  me  ever 
Like  ghosts  of  a  haunting  dream. 

Jessie  B.  Rittenhouse 

THE  FOUNTAIN 

All  through  the  deep  blue  night 
The  fountain  sang  alone; 
It  sang  to  the  drowsy  heart 
Of  the  satyr  carved  in  stone. 

The  fountain  sang  and  sang 
But  the  satyr  never  stirred  — 
Only  the  great  white  moon 
In  the  empty  heaven  heard. 

The  fountain  sang  and  sang 

While  on  the  marble  rim 

The  milk-white  peacocks  slept, 

And  their  dreams  were  strange  and  dim. 

Bright  dew  was  on  the  grass, 
And  on  the  ilex,  dew, 
199 


The  dreamy  milk-white  birds 
Were  all  a-glisten,  too. 

The  fountain  sang  and  sang 
The  things  one  cannot  tell ; 
The  dreaming  peacocks  stirred 
And  the  gleaming  dew-drops  fell. 

Sara  Teasdale 

THE  CHAMPA  FLOWER 

Supposing  I  became  a  champa  flower,  just  for  fun,  and 
grew  on  a  branch  high  up  that  tree,  and  shook  in  the  wind  with 
laughter  and  danced  upon  the  newly  budded  leaves,  would  you 
know  me,  mother? 

You  would  call,  "Baby,  where  are  you?"  and  I  should 
laugh  to  myself  and  keep  quite  quiet. 

I  should  slyly  open  my  petals  and  watch  you  at  your  work. 

When  after  your  bath,  with  wet  hair  spread  on  your  shoul- 
ders, you  walked  through  the  shadow  of  the  champa  tree  to  the 
little  court  where  you  say  your  prayers,  you  would  notice  the 
scent  of  the  flower,  but  not  know  that  it  came  from  me. 

When  after  the  midday  meal  you  sat  at  the  window  reading 
Ramayana,  and  the  tree's  shadow  fell  over  your  hair  and  your 
lap,  I  should  fling  my  wee  little  shadow  on  to  the  page  of  your 
book,  just  where  you  were  reading. 

But  would  you  guess  that  it  was  the  tiny  shadow  of  your 

little  child? 

200 


When  in  the  evening  you  went  to  the  cow-shed  with  the  lighted 
lamp  in  your  hand,  I  should  suddenly  drop  on  to  the  earth  again 
and  be  your  own  baby  once  more,  and  beg  you  to  tell  me  a  story. 
"Where  have  you  been,  you  naughty  child?" 
"I  won't  tell  you,  mother."  That's  what  you  and  I  would 
say  then. 

Rabixdranath  Tagore 


IN  AN  EGYPTIAN  GARDEN 

Can  it  be  winter  otherwhere? 

Forsooth,  it  seems  not  so! 
The  moonlight  on  the  garden  square 

Must  be  the  only  snow, 
For  all  about  me,  fragrant  fair, 

The  blooms  of  summer  blow. 

Wine-lipped  and  beautiful  and  bland, 
The  rose  displays  its  dower; 

The  heavy-scented  citron  and 
The  stainless  lily-tower; 

And  whiter  than  a  houri's  hand, 
El  Ful,  the  Arab  flower. 

In  purple  silhouette  a  palm 

Lifts  from  a  vine-wreathed  plinth 

201 


Against  a  sky  whose  cloudless  calm 

Is  hucd  like  hyacinth ; 
And  echoes  with  a  bulbul's  psalm 

The  jasmine  labyrinth. 

In  life's  tumultuous  ocean  swell 

Here  is  a  charmed  isle; 
I  hear  a  late  muezzin  tell 

His  holy  tale  the  while, 
And  like  the  faint  notes  of  a  bell 

The  boat-songs  of  old  Nile. 

Across  my  spirit  thrills  no  theme 

That  is  not  marvel-bright; 
I  see  within  the  lotus  gleam 

The  nectar  of  delight, 
And,  tasting  it,  I  drift  and  dream 

Adown  the  glamoured  night! 

Clinton  Scollard 


EVENING  IN  OLD  JAPAN 

Peaceful  and  mellow  looks  the  sky  to-night 
As  some  great  Buddha  made  of  ivory, 

Upon  whose  brow  is  set  a  moonstone  white, 
The  shining  emblem  of  its  purity. 
202 


A  dim  blue  haze  like  incense,  rising  high, 
Merges  together  mountain,  tree,  and  stream; 

But  over  all  still  broods  an  ivory  sky- 
Cloudless  as  Buddha's  face,  one  gem  agleam. 

Antoinette  De  Coursey  Patterson 


REFLECTIONS 

When  I  looked  into  your  eyes, 

I  saw  a  garden 

With  peonies,  and  tinkling  pagodas, 

And  round-arched  bridges 

Over  still  lakes. 

A  woman  sat  beside  the  water 
In  a  rain-blue,  silken  garment. 
She  reached  through  the  water 
To  pluck  the  crimson  peonies 
Beneath  the  surface. 

But  as  she  grasped  the  stems, 

They  jarred  and  broke  into  white-green  ripples. 

And  as  she  drew  out  her  hand, 

The  water  drops  dripping  from  it 

Stained  her  rain-blue  dress  like  tears. 

Amy  Lowell 

203 


IN  THE  GARDEN 

Do  you  remember,  Sister, 

The  golden  afternoon 

When  we  looked  upon  the  lotus 

And  listened  to  the  croon 

Of  the  doves  that  sat  together 

Among  the  flowers  of  June? 

And  deep  among  the  valleys 

A  far,  sweet  sound  was  heard  — 

Some  fluter  in  the  forest 

That  like  a  magic  bird 

Sang  of  the  unseen  heavens 

And  mystic  Way  and  Word. 

Pai  Ta-Shtjn 

THE  DESERTED  GARDEN 

I  heae  no  more  the  swish  of  silks 
Along  the  marble  walks; 
The  autumn  wind  blows  sharp  and  cold 
Among  the  flowerless  stalks. 

In  place  of  petals  of  the  peach 

Fast  drifts  the  yellow  leaf; 

And  looking  in  the  lotus-pond 

I  see  one  face  of  grief. 

Pai  Ta-Shun 

204 


A  ROMAN  GARDEN 

All  night  above  that  garden  the  rose-flushed  moon  will  sail, 
Making  the  darkness  deeper  where  hides  the  nightingale. 
Below  the  Sabine  mountain 
The  tossed  and  slender  fountain 

Will  curve,  a  lily  pale; 
And  where  the  plumed  pine  soars  tallest, 
'T  is  there,  0  nightingale,  thou  callest; 
Where  the  loud  water  leaps  the  highest. 
'T  is  there,  0  nightingale,  thou  criest; 
In  the  dripping  luscious  dark, 

Hark,  oh,  hark! 
Wonderful,  delirious, 
Soul  of  joy  mysterious. 

A  garden  full  of  fragrances, 
Of  pauses  and  of  cadences, 
Whence  come  they  all? 
Of  cypresses  and  ilex-trees, 
Plumes  and  dark  candles  like  to  these 
Were  long  ago  Persephone's. 

All  night  within  that  garden 

The  glimmering  gods  of  stone, 
The  satyrs  and  the  naiads 

Will  laugh  to  be  alone, 

206 


In  starless  courts  of  shadows 

By  silence  overgrown, 
Save  for  the  nightingale's 

Wild  lyric  thither  blown. 

By  pools  and  dusky  closes 

Dim  shapes  will  move  about, 
Twirled  wands  and  masks  and  faces, 
Dancers  and  wreaths  of  roses, 

The  moonlight's  trick,  no  doubt. 
A  naked  nymph  upon  the  stair, 
A  sculptured  vine  that  clasps  the  air,  — 
And  then  one  Bacchic  bird  somewhere 

Will  pour  his  passion  out. 
All  night  above  that  garden  the  rose-flushed  moon  will  sail, 
Making  the  darkness  deeper  where  hides  the  nightingale. 

Down  yonder  velvet  alley, 

Floats  Daphne  like  a  feather, 
A  finger  bidding  silence, 

The  dark  and  she  together. 
Look,  where  the  secret  fount  is  misting. 
Apollo,  thou  shalt  have  thy  trysting: 
For  where  a  ruined  sphinx  lay  smiling 
The  wood-girl  waits  thee,  white,  beguiling. 
All  night  above  that  garden  the  rose-flushed  moon  will  sail, 
Making  the  darkness  deeper  where  hides  the  nightingale. 

Florence  Wilkinson  Evans 

206 


COMO  IN  APRIL 

The  wind  is  Winter,  though  the  sun  be  Spring: 

The  icy  rills  have  scarce  begun  to  flow; 
The  birds  unconfidently  fly  and  sing. 

As  on  the  land  once  fell  the  northern  foe, 

The  hostile  mountains  from  the  passes  fling 
Their  vandal  blasts  upon  the  lake  below. 

Not  yet  the  round  clouds  of  the  Maytime  cling 

Above  the  world's  blue  wonder's  curving  show, 
And  tempt  to  linger  with  their  lingering. 

Yet  doth  each  slope  a  vernal  promise  know: 

See,  mounting  yonder,  white  as  angel's  wing. 
A  snow  of  bloom  to  meet  the  bloom  of  snow. 

Love,  need  we  more  than  our  imagining 

To  make  the  whole  year  May?  What  though 
The  wind  be  Winter  if  the  heart  be  Spring? 

Robert  Underwood  Johnson 

AN  EXILE'S  GARDEN 

I  live  in  the  heart  of  a  garden 

With  cypresses  all  about; 
To  the  east  and  west,  and  the  south  and  north, 

Straight  shadowy  paths  run  out. 
207 


There  are  ancient  gods  in  my  garden; 

They  have  faces  young  and  pale; 
And  a  hundred  thousand  roses  here 

Enrapture  the  nightingale. 

Yet,  among  the  gods  of  the  garden, 

The  roses  and  gods,  I  think, 
Daylong,  of  a  far-off  clover  field, 

And  the  song  of  a  bob-o-link. 

Sophie  Jewett 


THE  CLOISTER  GARDEN  AT  CERTOSA 

It  is  a  place  monastic,  set  above 
The  city's  pride  and  pleasuring  below; 

The  benediction  of  the  sky  breathes  love 
Over  the  olive  trees  and  vines  a-row. 

The  old  gray  walls  are  delicate  to  prayer 
And  silence;  in  the  corridors  dim-lit 

Lurks  many  a  painting,  many  a  fresco  rare 
Done  by  some  brother  for  the  joy  of  it. 

Pale  lavender  and  red  pomegranate  trees. 

Roses  and  poppies  spilling  garden  sweets; 
And  tall  lush  grass  and  grain,  and,  circling  these, 

The  cool  of  cloistral  walks  and  shadowed  seats. 
208 


By  a  sun-dial  in  the  center,  rests 
One  brown-robed  Father;  and  his  lips  recite 

Some  holy  word;  little  he  heeds  the  jests 
Of  those  who  make  the  world  their  chief  delight. 

While  Florence,  far  below,  from  dreamy  towers 
Throws  back  the  sun  and  tolls  the  tranquil  hours. 

Richard  Burton 


A  GARDEN  IN  VENICE 

There  is  a  garden  in  a  vineyard  set 
Beneath  the  spell  of  Adriatic  skies; 
A  lovely  place  of  dreams  and  ecstasies, 

Of  color  tangled  in  a  verdant  net, 

The  shimmer  of  the  low  lagoon  whose  fret 
Washes  the  garden's  length,  and  rose  that  vies 
With  rose,  pomegranate  and  tall  flowers  that  rise 

Above  their  fellows  in  one  glory  met. 

And  there  I  think  in  the  still  summer  night, 
When  all  the  world  is  sleeping  save  the  moon 
And  the  blest  nightingale  who  shuns  the  noon, 

The  closed  flowers  open  out  of  sheer  delight 
And  the  white  lilies  bow  their  slender  stalks, 
For  thro'  them,  'neath  the  vines  Madonna  walks. 
Dorothy  Frances  Gurney 


209 


'IN  A  GARDEN  OF  GRANADA 

The  city  rumour  rises  all  the  day 

Across  the  potted  plants  along  the  wall; 

The  sun  and  winds  upon  the  slopes  hold  sway, 
Tossing  the  dust  and  shadows  in  a  squall. 

The  sun  is  old  and  weary  —  weary  here 
Upon  the  ageing  roofs  and  miradors, 

The  broken  terraces  and  basins  drear 
Where  each  old  bell  its  ancient  echoes  pours. 

Ringing  —  what  memories  to  ring  —  to  those 
That  linger  here  —  the  lizard  and  the  cat, 

That  haunt  these  solitudes  in  state  morose 
Through  the  long  day  their  silent  habitat. 

Untroubled,  —  save  when  in  the  moonlight  steals 
Some  voice  in  song  across  the  lower  wall, 

And  sudden  magic  each  old  rafter  feels, 
The  while  the  echoes  round  it  rise  and  fall. 

For  as  the  wail  of  love  or  sorrow  rings 
Along  the  night  soft  steps  are  on  the  stair 

And  pathway;  in  the  broken  window  wings 
Are  stirring,  and  white  arms  are  lolling  there. 
210 


And  that  old  rose  tree  lifts  its  head  anew, 
And  there  is  perfume  o'er  the  hills  afar, 

From  where  Alhambra's  crescent  cleaves  the  blue 
To  where  agleam  Genii  and  Darro  are. 

O  Voice!  —  what  is  thy  necromantic  word 
That  all  Granada  waits  adown  the  years? 

Is  it  the  sound  some  love-swept  night  has  heard  ?  — 
The  cry  of  love  amid  the  cry  of  tears  ?  — 

Thomas  Walsh 

AMIEL'S  GARDEN 

His  Garden!  His  bright  candelabra  trees 
En  fete.   His  lilacs  steeped  in  joy!  His  sky 
Limpid  and  blue!  The  same  flecked  shadows  lie 
Athwart  this  path  he  paced.  His  reveries 
Float  in  the  air.   His  moodsj  his  ecstasies 
Still  linger  charmed.   Pale  butterflies  flit  by  — 
Were  one  his  soul  it  had  not  found  on  high 
Banquet  more  choice  than  those  infinities 
He  daily  knew.   And  now  no  one  to  hear 
The  hovering  hours,  the  singing  grass,  to  feel 
The  wrinkles  of  the  soul  smooth  out,  to  see 
God's  shadow  bend  down  from  eternity  — 
His  garden  empty!  Yet  I  gently  steal 
Lest  I  disturb  his  dreams  still  smiling  near. 

Gertrude  Huntington  McGiffert 

211 


EDEN-HUNGER 

0  that  a  nest,  my  mate!  were  once  more  ours, 
Where  we,  by  vain  and  barren  change  untutored, 

Could  have  grave  friendships  with  wise  trees  and  flowers, 
And  live  the  great,  green  life  of  field  and  orchard! 

From  the  cold  birthday  of  the  daffodils, 

E'en  to  that  listening  pause  that  is  November, 

O  to  confide  in  woods,  confer  with  hills, 
And  then  —  then,  to  that  palmland  you  remember, 

Fly  swift,  where  seas  that  brook  not  Winter's  rule 

Are  one  vast  violet  breaking  into  lilies; 
There  where  we  spent  our  first  strange  wedded  Yule, 

In  the  far,  golden,  fire-hearted  Antilles. 

William  Watson 

THE  GARDEN  AT  BEMERTON 

FOB  A  FLYLEAF  OF  HERBERT'S  POEMS 

Year  after  year,  from  dusk  to  dusk, 
How  sweet  this  English  garden  grows, 
Steeped  in  two  centuries'  sun  and  musk, 
Walled  from  the  world  in  gray  repose, 
Harbor  of  honey-freighted  bees, 
And  wealthy  with  the  rose. 
212 


Here  pinks  with  spices  in  their  throats 
Nod  by  the  bitter  marigold; 
Here  nightingales  with  haunting  notes, 
When  west  and  east  with  stars  are  bold, 
From  out  the  twisted  hawthorn-trees, 
Sing  back  the  weathers  old. 

All  tuneful  winds  do  down  it  pass; 
The  leaves  a  sudden  whiteness  show, 
And  delicate  noises  fill  the  grass; 
The  only  flakes  its  spaces  know 
Are  petals  blown  off  briers  long, 
And  heaped  on  blades  below. 

Ah!  dawn  and  dusk,  year  after  year, 
'T  is  more  than  these  that  keeps  it  rare! 
We  see  the  saintly  Master  here, 
Pacing  along  the  alleys  fair, 
And  catch  the  throbbing  of  a  song 
Across  the  amber  air! 

LlZETTE   WOODWORTH   REESE 

IN  AN  OXFORD  GARDEN 

As  one  whose  road  winds  upward  turns  his  face 
Unto  the  valleys  where  he  late  hath  stood, 
Leaning  upon  his  staff  in  peace  to  brood 
On  many  a  beauty  of  the  distant  place, 

213 


So  I  in  this  cool  garden  pause  a  space, 
Reviewing  many  things  in  many  a  mood, 
Accumulating  friends  in  solitude 
From  the  assembly  of  my  thoughts  and  days. 

Arthur  Upson 


THE  HOMELY  GARDEN 


"GRANDMOTHER'S  GATHERING  BONESET" 

Grandmother 's  gathering  boneset  to-day ; 
In  the  garret  she'll  dry  and  hang  it  away. 
Next  winter  I'll  "need"  some  boneset  tea  — 
/  wish  she  would  n't  think  always  of  me ! 

Edith  M.  Thomas 


A  BREATH  OF  MINT 

What  small  leaf-fingers  veined  with  emerald  light 
Lay  on  my  heart  that  touch  of  elfin  might? 

What  spirals  of  sharp  perfume  do  they  fling, 
To  blur  my  page  with  swift  remembering? 

Borne  in  a  country  basket  marketward, 
Their  message  is  a  music  spirit-heard, 

A  pebble-hindered  lilt  and  gurgle  and  run 
Of  tawny  singing  water  in  the  sun. 

Their  coolness  brings  that  ecstasy  I  knew 

Down  by  the  mint-fringed  brook  that  wandered  through 

My  mellow  meadows  set  with  linden-trees 
Loud  with  the  summer  jargon  of  the  bees. 

Their  magic  has  its  way  with  me  until 

I  see  the  storm's  dark  wing  shadow  the  hill 

As  once  I  saw:  and  draw  sharp  breath  again, 
To  feel  their  arrowy  fragrance  pierce  the  rain. 

0  sudden  urging  sweetness  in  the  air, 
Exhaled,  diffused  about  me  everywhere, 

Yours  is  the  subtlest  word  the  summer  saith, 
And  vanished  summers  sigh  upon  your  breath. 

Grace  Hazard  Conklinq 

217 


A  SELLER  OF  HERBS 

Black,  comely,  of  abiding  cheer, 
Three  times  a  week  she  fares, 
Townward  from  gabled  Windermere, 
To  sell  her  dainty  wares. 

Green  balms  she  brings  from  winding  lanes, 
And  some  in  handfuls  tall, 
Of  the  old  days  of  Annes  and  Janes, 
Grown  by  a  kitchen  wall. 

Keen  mint  has  she  in  dewy  sprigs, 
With  spears  of  violet; 
And  the  spiced  bloom  of  elder-twigs 
In  a  field's  hollow  set. 

My  snatch  of  May  I  get  from  her, 
In  white  buds  off  a  tree; 
June  in  one  whiff  of  lavender, 
That  breaks  my  heart  for  me. 

The  swaying  boughs  of  Windermere, 
Each  gust  that  takes  the  grass, 
High  over  the  town  roar  I  hear, 
When  that  old  stall  I  pass. 
218 


What  homely  memories  are  mine, 
At  sight  of  her  quaint  stalks; 
Of  grave  dusks  mellowing  like  wine 
Down  long,  box-bordered  walks; 

Of  garret  windows  eastward  thrust, 
Of  rafters  shining  dim, 
And  heaped  with  herbs  as  gray  as  dust 
All  scented  to  the  brim. 

This  lady  of  the  market-place, 
Three  times  a  week  and  more, 
I  pray  her  seasons  thick  with  grace; 
And  ever  at  her  door, 

Shut  from  the  road  by  wall  of  stone, 
And  ample  cherry  trees, 
A  garden  fair  as  Herrick's  own, 
And  just  as  full  of  bees! 

LlZETTE   WOODWORTH   REESE 


LAVENDER 

Gray  walls  that  lichen  stains, 
That  take  the  sun  and  the  rains, 

Old,  stately,  and  wise: 
Clipt  yews,  old  lawns  flag-bordered, 


In  ancient  ways  yet  ordered; 

South  walks  where  the  loud  bee  plies 

Daylong  till  Summer  flies  — 
Here  grows  Lavender,  here  breathes  England- 
Gay  cottage  gardens,  glad, 
Comely,  unkempt,  and  mad, 

Jumbled,  jolly,  and  quaint; 
Nooks  where  some  old  man  dozes; 
Currants  and  beans  and  roses 

Mingling  without  restraint; 

A  wicket  that  long  lacks  paint  — 
Here  grows  Lavender,  here  breathes  England. 

Sprawling  for  elbow-room, 
Spearing  straight  spikes  of  bloom, 

Clean,  wayward,  and  tough; 
Sweet  and  tall  and  slender, 
True,  enduring,  and  tender, 

Buoyant  and  bold  and  bluff, 

Simplest,  sanest  of  stuff  — 
Thus  grows  Lavender,  thence  breathes  England. 

W.  W.  Blair  Fish 


220 


DAWN  IN  MY  GARDEN 

I  went  into  my  garden  at  break  of  Delight, 

Before  Joy  had  risen  in  the  Eastern  sky, 
To  see  how  many  cucumbers  had  happened  over  night, 

And  how  much  higher  stood  the  corn  that  yesterday  was  high. 

I  went  into  my  garden  when  Rest  had  fallen  away 
From  the  tops  of  blue  hills,  from  the  valleys  gold  and  green, 

To  see  how  far  the  beans  had  travelled  up  into  the  day, 
And  whether  all  my  lettuces  were  glad  and  cool  and  clean. 

I  went  into  my  garden  when  Mirth  was  laughing  low 
Through  the  sharp-scented  leaves  of  the  lush  tomato  vines, 

Through  the  long  blue-grey  leaves  of  the  turnips  in  a  row, 
Where  early  in  the  every  day  the  dew  shakes  and  shines. 

Oh,  Rest  had  slipped  away  from  the  valleys  green  and  gold, 
From  the  tops  of  blue  hills  that  were  silent  all  the  night, 

But  the  big,  round  Joy  was  rising,  busy  and  bold, 
When  I  went  into  my  garden  at  break  of  Delight! 

Marguerite  Wilkinson 

THE  PROUD  VEGETABLES 

In  a  funny  little  garden  not  much  bigger  than  a  mat, 

There  lived  a  thriving  family,  its  members  all  were  fat; 

But  some  were  short,  and  some  were  tall,  and  some  were  almost 

round, 
And  some  ran  high  on  bamboo  poles,  and  some  lay  on  the  ground. 

221 


Of  these  old  Father  Pumpkin  was,  perhaps,  the  proudest  one. 
He  claimed  to  trace  his  family  vine  directly  from  the  sun. 
"We  both  are  round  and  yellow,  we  both  are  bright,"  said  he, 
"A  stronger  family  likeness  one  could  scarcely  wish  to  see." 

Old  Mrs.  Squash  hung  on  the  fence;  she  had  a  crooked  neck, 
Perhaps  't  was  hanging  made  it  so,  —  her  nerves  were  quite  a 

wreck. 
Near  by,  upon  a  planted  row  of  faggots,  dry  and  lean, 
The  young  cucumbers  climbed  to  swing  their  Indian  clubs  of 

green. 

A  big  white  daikon  hid  in  earth  beneath  his  leafy  crest; 
And  mole-like  sweet  potatoes  crept  around  his  quiet  nest. 
Above  were  growing  pearly  pease,  and  beans  of  many  kinds 
With  pods  like  tiny  castanets  to  mock  the  summer  winds. 

There,  in  a  spot  that  feels  the  sun,  the  swarthy  egg-plant  weaves 
Great  webs  of  frosted  tapestry  and  hangs  them  out  for  leaves. 
Its  funny  azure  blossoms  give  a  merry,  shrivelled  wink, 
And  lifting  up  the  leaves  display  great  drops  of  purple  ink. 

Now,  life  went  on  in  harmony  and  pleasing  indolence 
Till  Mrs.  Squash  had  vertigo  and  tumbled  off  the  fence; 
But  not  to  earth  she  fell!   Alas,  —  but  down,  with  all  her  force, 
Upon  old  Father  Pumpkin's  head,  and  cracked  his  skull,  of  course. 

222 


At  this  a  fearful  din  arose.   The  pods  began  to  split, 

Cucumbers  turned  a  sickly  hue,  the  daikon  had  a  fit, 

The  sweet  potatoes  rent  the  ground,  —  the  egg-plant  dropped 

his  loom, 
While  every  polished  berry  seemed  to  gain  an  added  gloom. 

And,  worst  of  all,  there  came  a  man,  who  once  had  planted  them. 
He  dug  that  little  family  up  by  root  and  leaf  and  stem, 
He  piled  them  high  in  baskets,  in  a  most  unfeeling  way  — 
All  this  was  told  me  by  the  cook,  —  we  ate  the  last  to-day. 

Mary  McNeil  Fenollosa 

THE  CHOICE 

When  skies  are  blue  and  days  are  bright 
A  kitchen-garden 's  my  delight, 
Set  round  with  rows  of  decent  box 
And  blowsy  girls  of  hollyhocks. 

Before  the  lark  his  Lauds  hath  done 
And  ere  the  corncrake's  southward  gone; 
Before  the  thrush  good-night  hath  said 
And  the  young  Summer's  put  to  bed. 

The  currant-bushes'  spicy  smell, 
Homely  and  honest,  likes  me  well, 
The  wliile  on  strawberries  I  feast, 
And  raspberries  the  sun  hath  kissed. 
223 


Beans  all  a-blowing  by  a  row 
Of  hives  that  great  with  honey  go, 
With  mignonette  and  heaths  to  yield 
The  plundering  bee  his  honey-field. 

Sweet  herbs  in  plenty,  blue  borage 
And  the  delicious  mint  and  sage, 
Rosemary,  marjoram,  and  rue, 
And  thyme  to  scent  the  winter  through. 

Here  are  small  apples  growing  round, 
And  apricots  all  golden-gowned, 
And  plums  that  presently  will  flush 
And  show  their  bush  a  Burning  Bush. 

Cherries  in  nets  against  the  wall, 
Where  Master  Thrush  his  madrigal 
Sings,  and  makes  oath  a  churl  is  he 
Who  grudges  cherries  for  a  fee. 

Lavender,  sweet-briar,  orris.  Here 
Shall  Beauty  make  her  pomander, 
Her  sweet-balls  for  to  lay  in  clothes 
That  wrap  her  as  the  leaves  the  rose. 

Take  roses  red  and  lilies  white, 

A  kitchen-garden's  my  delight; 

Its  gillyflowers  and  phlox  and  cloves, 

And  its  tall  cote  of  irised  doves. 

Katharine  Tynan 
224 


THOUGHTS  FER  THE  DISCURAGED  FARMER 

The  summer  winds  is  sniffin'  round  the  bloomin'  locus'  trees; 
And  the  clover  in  the  pastur'  is  a  big  day  fer  the  bees, 
And  they  been  a-swiggin'  honey,  above  board  and  on  the  sly, 
Tel  they  stutter  in  theyr  buzzin'  and  stagger  as  they  fly. 
The  flicker  on  the  fence-rail  'pears  to  jest  spit  on  his  wings 
And  roll  up  his  feathers,  by  the  sassy  way  he  sings; 
And  the  hoss-fly  is  a-whettin'-up  his  forelegs  fer  biz, 
And  the  off-mare  is  a-switchin'  all  of  her  tail  they  is. 

You  can  hear  the  blackbirds  jawin'  as  they  f oiler  up  the  plow  — 
Oh,  theyr  bound  to  git  theyr  brekfast,  and  theyr  not  a  carin'  how; 
So  they  quarrel  in  the  furries,  and  they  quarrel  on  the  wing  — 
But  theyr  peaceabler  in  pot-pies  than  any  other  thing: 
And  it 's  when  I  git  my  shotgun  drawed  up  in  stiddy  rest, 
She's  as  full  of  tribbelation  as  a  yeller-jacket's  nest; 
And  a  few  shots  before  dinner,  when  the  sun 's  a-shinin'  right, 
Seems  to  kindo'-sorto'  sharpen  up  a  feller's  appetite! 

They's  been  a  heap  o'  rain,  but  the  sun's  out  to-day, 
And  the  clouds  of  the  wet  spell  is  all  cleared  away, 
And  the  woods  is  all  the  greener,  and  the  grass  is  greener  still ; 
It  may  rain  again  to-morry,  but  I  don't  think  it  will. 
Some  says  the  crops  is  ruined,  and  the  corn 's  drownded  out, 
And  propha-sy  the  wheat  will  be  a  failure,  without  doubt; 
But  the  kind  Providence  that  has  never  failed  us  yet, 
Will  be  on  hand  onc't  more  at  the  'leventh  hour,  I  bet! 

225 


Doos  the  medder-lark  complain,  as  he  swims  high  and  dry 

Through  the  waves  of  the  wind  and  the  blue  of  the  sky? 

Does  the  quail  set  up  and  whissel  in  a  disappointed  way, 

Er  hang  his  head  in  silence,  and  sorrow  all  the  day? 

Is  the  chipmuck's  health  a-failin'?  —  Does  he  walk,er  does  he 

run? 
Don't  the  buzzards  ooze  around  up  thare  jest  like  they've  alius 

done? 
Is  they  anything  the  matter  with  the  rooster's  lungs  er  voice? 
Ort  a  mortul  be  complainin'  when  dumb  animals  rejoice? 

Then  let  us,  one  and  all,  be  contented  with  our  lot; 
The  June  is  here  this  morning,  and  the  sun  is  shining  hot. 
Oh!  let  us  fill  our  harts  up  with  the  glory  of  the  day, 
And  banish  ev'ry  doubt  and  care  and  sorrow  fur  away! 
Whatever  be  our  station,  with  Providence  fer  guide, 
Sich  fine  circumstances  ort  to  make  us  satisfied; 
Fer  the  world  is  full  of  roses,  and  the  roses  full  of  dew, 
And  the  dew  is  full  of  heavenly  love  that  drips  fer  me  and  you. 

James  Whitcomb  Riley 

GRACE  FOR  GARDENS 

Lord  God  in  Paradise, 

Look  upon  our  sowing, 
Bless  the  little  gardens 

And  the  good  green  growing! 
226 


Give  us  sun, 

Give  us  rain, 
Bless  the  orchards 

And  the  grain! 

Lord  God  in  Paradise, 

Please  bless  the  beans  and  peas, 
Give  us  corn  full  on  the  ear  — 

We  will  praise  Thee,  Lord,  for  these! 
Bless  the  blossom 

And  the  root, 
Bless  the  seed 

And  the  fruit! 

Lord  God  in  Paradise, 

Over  my  brown  field  is  seen, 
Trembling  and  adventuring. 

A  miracle  of  green. 
Send  such  grace 

As  you  know, 
To  keep  it  safe 

And  make  it  grow! 

Lord  God  in  Paradise, 
For  the  wonder  of  the  seed, 

Wondering,  we  praise  you,  while 
We  tell  you  of  our  need. 

227 


Look  down  from  Paradise, 

Look  upon  our  sowing, 
Bless  the  little  gardens 

And  the  good  green  growing! 
Give  us  sun, 

Give  us  rain, 
Bless  the  orchards 

And  the  grain! 

Louise  Driscoll 


SILVER  BELLS  AND  COCKLE  SHELLS 


PLANTING 

The  sky  is  blue  and  soft  to-day, 

The  grass  is  green  this  month  of  May, 

And  Muwer  with  her  spade  and  rake 

My  little  garden  helps  me  make ; 

For  every  one  must  plant  more  seeds 

To  grow  the  food  that  each  one  needs: 

Potatoes,  corn,  green  peas,  and  beets, 

The  kind  of  beans  that  sister  eats, 

We  plant  in  rows  marked  by  a  string, 

For  neatness  is  the  one  great  thing ; 

The  earth  is  then  raked  smooth  and  pressed 

And  Nature  'tends  to  all  the  rest. 

Robert  Livingston 


SPRING  PATCHWORK 

If  I  could  patch  a  coverlet 

From  pieces  of  the  Spring, 
What  dreams  a  happy  child  would  have 

Beneath  so  fair  a  thing! 

A  center  of  the  dear  blue  sky, 

A  bordering  of  green, 
With  patches  of  the  yellow  sun 

All  chequered  in  between. 

Bright  ribbons  of  the  silky  grass 

Laced  prettily  across, 
With  satin  of  new  little  leaves, 

And  velvet  of  the  moss. 

In  every  corner,  violets, 

Half-hidden  from  the  view, 
With  many-flowered  squares  betwixt, 

Of  pinky  tints  and  blue; 

Of  flossy  silk  and  gossamer, 

Of  tissue  and  brocade; 
A  warp  of  rosy  morning  mist, 

A  woof  of  purple  shade. 

Embroideries  of  little  vines, 
And  spider-webs  of  lace, 
Ml 


With  tassels  of  the  alder  tied 
At  each  convenient  place. 

With  gold-thread  I  would  sew  the  seams, 

And  needles  of  the  pine, 
Oh,  never  child  in  all  the  world 

Would  have  a  quilt  like  mine! 

Abbie  Farwell  Brown 

BABY'S  VALENTINE 

Valentine,  0  Valentine, 
Pretty  little  Love  of  mine; 
Little  Love  whose  yellow  hair 
Makes  the  daffodils  despair; 
Little  Love  whose  shining  eyes 
Fill  the  stars  with  sad  surprise: 
Hither  turn  your  ten  wee  toes, 
Each  a  tiny  shut-up  rose, 
End  most  fitting  and  complete 
For  the  rosy-pinky  feet; 
Toddle,  toddle  here  to  me, 
For  I'm  waiting,  do  you  see?  — 
Waiting  for  to  call  you  mine, 
Valentine,  0  Valentine! 

Valentine,  O  Valentine, 
I  will  dress  you  up  so  fine! 

232 


Here's  a  frock  of  tulip-leaves, 
Trimmed  with  lace  the  spider  weaves; 
Here 's  a  cap  of  larkspur  blue, 
Just  precisely  made  for  you; 
Here 's  a  mantle  scarlet-dyed, 
Once  the  tiger-lily's  pride, 
Spotted  all  with  velvet  black 
Like  the  fire-beetle's  back; 
Lady-slippers  on  your  feet, 
Now  behold  you  all  complete! 
Come  and  let  me  call  you  mine, 
Valentine,  0  Valentine! 

Valentine,  0  Valentine, 
Now  a  wreath  for  you  I  '11  twine. 
I  will  set  you  on  a  throne 
Where  the  damask  rose  has  blown, 
Dropping  all  her  velvet  bloom, 
Carpeting  your  leafy  room: 
Here  while  you  shall  sit  in  pride, 
Butterflies  all  rainbow-pied, 
Dandy  beetles  gold  and  green, 
Creeping,  flying,  shall  be  seen, 
Every  bird  that  shakes  his  wings, 
Every  katydid  that  sings, 
Wasp  and  bee  with  buzz  and  hum. 
Hither,  hither  sec  them  come, 
£33 


Creeping  all  before  your  feet, 
Rendering  their  homage  meet. 
But 't  is  I  that  call  you  mine, 
Valentine,  0  Valentine! 

Laura  E.  Richards 


BABY  SEED  SONG 

Little  brown  brother,  oh!  little  brown  brother, 

Are  you  awake  in  the  dark? 
Here  we  lie  cosily,  close  to  each  other: 

Hark  to  the  song  of  the  lark  — 
"Waken!"  the  lark  says,  "waken  and  dress  you; 

Put  on  your  green  coats  and  gay, 
Blue  sky  will  shine  on  you,  sunshine  caress  you  — 

Waken!  't  is  morning  —  't is  May!" 

Little  brown  brother,  oh!  little  brown  brother, 

What  kind  of  flower  will  you  be? 
I'll  be  a  poppy  —  all  white,  like  my  mother; 

Do  be  a  poppy  like  me. 
What!  you  're  a  sun-flower?  How  I  shall  miss  you 

When  you're  grown  golden  and  high! 
But  I  shall  send  all  the  bees  up  to  kiss  you; 

Little  brown  brother,  good-bye. 

E.  Nesbit 
234 


RAIN  IN  THE  NIGHT 

Raining,  raining, 

All  night  long; 
Sometimes  loud,  sometimes  soft, 

Just  like  a  song. 

There  '11  be  rivers  in  the  gutters 
And  lakes  along  the  street. 

It  will  make  our  lazy  kitty- 
Wash  his  little  dirty  feet. 

The  roses  will  wear  diamonds 

Like  kings  and  queens  at  court; 
But  the  pansies  all  get  muddy 

Because  they  are  so  short. 

I  '11  sail  my  boat  to-morrow 

In  wonderful  new  places, 
But  first  I'll  take  my  watering-pot 

And  wash  the  pansies'  faces. 

Amelia  Josephine  Burr 


235 


A  LITTLE  GIRL'S  SONGS 

I 

Spring  Song 

I  love  daffodils. 

I  love  Narcissus  when  he  bends  his  head. 

I  can  hardly  keep  March  and  spring  and  Sunday 

and  daffodils 
Out  of  my  rhyme  of  song. 
Do  you  know  anything  about  the  spring 
When  it  comes  again? 
God  knows  about  it  while  winter  is  lasting: 
Flowers  bring  him  power  in  the  spring, 
And  birds  bring  it,  and  children. 
He  is  sometimes  sad  and  alone 
Up  there  in  the  sky  trying  to  keep  his  worlds 

happy. 
I  bring  him  songs  when  he  is  in  his  sadness,  and 

weary. 
I  tell  him  how  I  used  to  wander  out  to  study  stars 

and  the  moon  he  made 
And  flowers  in  the  dark  of  the  wood. 
I  keep  reminding  him  about  his  flowers  he  has 

forgotten, 
And  that  snowdrops  are  up. 
What  can  I  say  to  make  him  listen? 

236 


"God,"  I  say, 

"Don't  you  care! 
Nobody  must  be  sad  or  sorry 
In  the  spring-time  of  flowers." 


II 

Velvets 

By  a  Bed  of  Pansies 

This  pansy  has  a  thinking  face 
Like  the  yellow  moon. 
This  one  has  a  face  with  white  blots: 
I  call  him  the  clown. 
Here  goes  one  down  the  grass 
With  a  pretty  look  of  plumpness: 
She  is  a  little  girl  going  to  school 
With  her  hands  in  the  pockets  of  her  pinafore. 
Her  name  is  Sue. 
I  like  this  one,  in  a  bonnet, 
Waiting  — 
Her  eyes  are  so  deep! 
But  these  on  the  other  side, 
These  that  wear  purple  and  blue, 
They  are  the  Velvets, 
The  king  with  his  cloak, 
The  queen  with  her  gown, 
237 


The  prince  with  his  feather. 
These  are  dark  and  quiet 
And  stay  alone. 

/  know  you,  Velvets 

Color  of  Dark, 

Like  the  pine-tree  on  the  hill 

When  stars  shine ! 

Hilda  Conkling 

(Six  years  old) 

WHEN  SWALLOWS  BUILD 

When  apple-blossom  time  doth  come 
And  with  their  scent  the  air  is  filled, 

And  fields  are  full  of  buttercups,  — 
'T  is  then  the  swallows  build. 

And  when  the  rippling  brooks  are  deep, 

Filled  to  the  overflowing, 
When  o'er  the  hills  and  meadows  fair 

The  south  wind 's  softly  blowing, 

With  sun  a-shining,  birds  a-singing 

Till  their  joyous  throats  are  thrilled, 
And  with  all  the  world  in  laughter,  — 
'T  is  then  the  swallows  build. 

Catherine  Parmenter 
(Eleven  years  old) 
238 


SPRING  PLANTING 

"What  shall  we  plant  for  our  Summer,  my  boy,  — 
Seeds  of  enchantment  and  seedlings  of  joy? 
Brave  little  cuttings  of  laughter  and  light? 

Then  shall  our  summer  be  flowery  and  bright." 

"Nay!  —  You  are  wrong  in  your  planting,"  said  he, 
"Have  we  not  grass  and  the  weeds  and  a  tree? 
Why  should  we  water  and  weary  away 
For  sake  of  a  flower  that  lives  but  a  day!" 

So  she  made  gardens  which  he  would  not  dig, 

Tended  her  apricot,  apple  and  fig. 
Then,  when  one  morning  he  chanced  to  appear, 

Sadly  he  noticed  —  "No  trespassing  here." 

Helen  Hay  Whitney 

IF  I  COULD  DIG  LIKE  A  RABBIT 

If  I  could  dig  holes  in  the  ground  like  a  rabbit, 

D' you  know  what  I'd  do? 

Well,  I  'd  dig  a  deep  hole  — 

Right  under  that  tree  — 

Then  I  'd  go  down  —  and  down, 

And  find  out  where  the  tree  starts, 

And  I'd  find  out  how  it  eat-;  and  drinks, 

And  what  makes  it  grow  .  .  . 

Yes  I  would! 

239 


P'r'aps  I  could  dig  a  hole  right  up  into  that  tree, 
And  —  see  —  it  —  grow!  .  .  . 
But  p'r'aps  I  could  n't. 

Anyway  I  could  dig  'way  down, 

And  see  all  the  flower  seeds, 

And  all  the  grass  seeds, 

And  under  that  big  rock  there  might  be  some  rock  seeds. 

And  I  'd  see  everything  start  growing. 

Do  all  the  seeds  make  noises 

When  they  start  to  grow? 

What  do  You  s'pose  about  that? 

I  s'pose  they  sing, 

'Cause  they're  so  glad  to  come  up  here  and  see  the  sunshine.  . 

Well,  anyway  I  'd  find  out  all  about  it,  'way  down  there, 
And  then  I  'd  want  to  come  up  home, 
And  I'd  have  so  much  to  tell  to  You! 


If  I  could  dig  holes  like  a  rabbit, 
That's  just  what  I  would  do. 


Rose  Strong  Hubbell 


THE  LITTLE  GOD 

Mother  says  there 's  a  little  god 

Lives  in  my  garden. 
I  asked  her  —  "In  the  tree?"  — 
I  asked  her  —  "In  the  fountain?' 
240 


And  she  said,  yes,  that  she, 

Plain  as  plain  could  be, 

Everywhere  could  see 
The  little  god. 
"What's  he  look  like,  mother?" 
"Oh,"  she  said,  "like  the  flowers, 

Like  the  summer  showers, 

Like  the  morning  dew,  — 

Like  you." 

She  says  he 's  everywhere 

In  my  garden  —  I  can't  see  him  there. 

Katharine  Howard 

DAISIES 

At  evening  when  I  go  to  bed 
I  see  the  stars  shine  overhead; 
They  are  the  little  daisies  white 
That  dot  the  meadow  of  the  Night. 

And  often  while  I  'm  dreaming  so, 
Across  the  sky  the  Moon  will  go; 
It  is  a  lady,  sweet  and  fair, 
Who  comes  to  gather  daisies  there. 

For,  when  at  morning  I  arise, 

There's  not  a  star  left  in  the  skies; 

She's  picked  them  all  and  dropped  them  down 

Into  the  meadows  of  the  town. 

Frank  Dempster  Sherman 

241 


THE  ANXIOUS  FARMER 

It  was  awful  long  ago 

That  I  put  those  seeds  around; 
And  I  guess  I  ought  to  know 

When  I  stuck  'em  in  the  ground. 
'Cause  I  noted  down  the  day 

In  a  little  diary  book,  — 
It's  gotten  losted  somewhere  and 
I  don't  know  where  to  look. 

But  I  'm  certain  anyhow 

They've  been  planted  most  a  week; 
And  it  must  be  time  by  now 

For  their  little  sprouts  to  peek. 
They've  been  watered  every  day 

With  a  very  speshul  care, 
And  once  or  twice  I  've  dug  'em  up  to 
see  if  they  were  there. 

I  fixed  the  dirt  in  humps 

Just  the  way  they  said  I  should; 
And  I  crumbled  all  the  lumps 

Just  as  finely  as  I  could. 
And  I  found  a  nangle-worm 
A-poking  up  his  head,  — 
He  maybe  feeds  on  seeds  and  such, 
and  so  I  squushed  him  dead. 
242 


A  seed 's  so  very  small, 

And  dirt  all  looks  the  same;  — 
How  can  they  know  at  all 

The  way  they  ought  to  aim? 
And  so  I  'm  waiting  round 

In  case  of  any  need; 
A  farmer  ought  to  do  his  best  for 
every  single  seed! 

Burges  Johnson 


OVER  THE  GARDEN  WALL 

By  the  side  of  a  wall  in  a  garden  gay, 

A  little  Rose-bush  grew; 
In  the  first  dear  days  of  the  month  of  May, 

Loved  by  the  sun  and  dew. 

It  gazed  to  the  top  of  the  wall  so  high 
With  happy  longing  and  pride, 

When  it  heard  the  children  laugh  and  cry 
As  they  passed  on  the  other  side. 

And  into  its  leaves  and  buds  there  came 
A  beautiful  thought  of  God. 
"  I  can  climb  to  the  heights  of  love  and  fame, 
If  my  roots  are  in  the  sod." 


Then  up  and  over  the  garden-wall, 

It  clambered  far  and  wide, 
Shedding  its  sweetness  for  one  and  all 

As  they  passed  on  the  other  side,  — 

The  weary  laborer,  the  beggar  cold, 

The  wise  man  and  the  fool, 
The  mother  and  daughter,  the  grandam  old 

And  the  children  going  to  school. 

The  breezes  scattered  its  pink  and  white 

In  a  perfumed  shower  for  all, 
And  the  beautiful  days  of  June  were  bright 

With  the  Rose  on  the  Garden-wall. 

Our  hearts  are  like  the  Roses  of  June, 

They  can  live  for  one  and  all, 
Giving  their  love  as  a  blessed  boon, 

From  a  palace  or  cottage  wall. 

Emily  Selinger 


THE  FLOWERPHONE 

See  the  morning-glories  hung 
On  the  vine  for  me  to  use: 

Hark!  A  flower-bell  has  rung, 
I  can  talk  now,  if  I  choose. 
244 


"Hellow  Central!  Oh,  hello! 
Give  me  Puck  of  Fairyland  — 
Mr.  Puck,  I  want  to  know 
What  I  cannot  understand. 

"How  the  leaves  are  scalloped  out; 
Where's  the  den  of  Dragon  Fly? 
What  do  crickets  chirp  about? 

Where  do  flowers  go  when  they  die? 

"How  far  can  a  Fairy  see? 

Why  are  woodsy  things  afraid? 
Who  lives  in  the  hollow  tree? 
How  are  cobweb  carpets  made? 

"Why  do  Fairies  hide?  —  Hello! 
What?  I  cannot  understand  — " 
That 's  the  way  they  always  do, 
They've  cut  me  off  from  Fairyland! 

Abbie  Farwell  Brown 


THE  FAITHLESS  FLOWERS 

I  went  this  morning  down  to  where  the  Johnny-Jump-Ups  grow 
Like  naughty  purple  faces  nodding  in  a  row. 
I  stayed  'most  all  the  morning  there  —  I  sat  down  on  a  stump 
And  watched  and  watched  and  watched  them  —  and  they  never 


gave  a  jump! 


245 


And  Golden-Glow  that  stands  up  tall  and  yellow  by  the  fence, 
It  does  n't  glow  a  single  bit  —  it's  only  just  pretence  — 
I  ran  down  after  tea  last  night  to  watch  them  in  the  dark  — 
I  had  to  light  a  match  to  see;  they  did  n't  give  a  spark! 

And  then  the  Bouncing  Bets  don't  bounce  —  I  tried  them  yester- 
day, 
I  picked  a  big  pink  bunch  down  in  the  meadow  where  they  stay, 
I  took  a  piece  of  string  I  had  and  tied  them  in  a  ball, 
And  threw  them  down  as  hard  as  hard  —  they  never  bounced  at 
all! 

And  tiger-lilies  may  look  fierce,  to  meet  them  all  alone, 
All  tall  and  black  and  yellowy  and  nodding  by  a  stone, 
But  they're  no  more  like  tigers  than  the  dogwood's  like  a  dog, 
Or  bulrushes  are  like  a  bull  or  toadwort  like  a  frog! 

I  like  the  flowers  very  much  —  they  're  pleasant  as  can  be 
For  bunches  on  the  table,  and  to  pick  and  wear  and  see, 
But  still  it  does  n't  seem  quite  fair  —  it  does  seem  very  queer  — 
They  don't  do  what  they  're  named  for  —  not  at  any  time  of 

year-  Margaret  Widdemer 

THE  FLOWER-SCHOOL 

When  storm  clouds  rumble  in  the  sky  and  June  showers 
come  down, 

The  moist  east  wind  comes  marching  over  the  heath  to  blow 
its  bagpipes  among  the  bamboos. 

246 


Then  crowds  of  flowers  come  out  of  a  sudden,  from  nobody- 
knows  where,  and  dance  upon  the  grass  in  wild  glee. 

Mother,  I  really  think  the  flowers  go  to  school  under- 
ground. 

They  do  their  lessons  with  doors  shut,  and  if  they  want  to 
come  out  to  play  before  it  is  time,  their  master  makes  them  stand 
in  a  corner. 

When  the  rains  come  down  they  have  their  holidays. 

Branches  clash  together  in  the  forest,  and  the  leaves  rustle 
in  the  wild  wind,  the  thunder-clouds  clap  their  giant  hands  and 
the  flower  children  rush  out  in  dresses  of  pink  and  yellow  and 
white. 

Do  you  know,  mother,  their  home  is  in  the  sky,  where  the 
stars  are. 

Have  n't  you  seen  how  eager  they  are  to  get  there?  Don't 
you  know  why  they  are  in  such  a  hurry? 

Of  course,  I  can  guess  to  whom  they  raise  their  arms:  they 
have  their  mother  as  I  have  my  own. 

Rabindranath  Tagore 


IRIS  FLOWERS 

My  mother  let  me  go  with  her, 
(I  had  been  good  all  day), 

To  see  the  iris  flowers  that  bloom 
In  gardens  far  away. 


We  walked  and  walked  through  hedges  green, 

Through  rice-flclds  empty  still, 
To  where  we  saw  a  garden  gate 

Beneath  the  farthest  hill. 

She  pointed  out  the' rows  of  "flowers";  — 

I  saw  no  planted  things, 
But  white  and  purple  butterflies 

Tied  down  with  silken  strings. 

They  strained  and  fluttered  in  the  breeze, 

So  eager  to  be  free; 
I  begged  the  man  to  let  them  go, 

But  mother  laughed  at  me. 

She  said  that  they  could  never  rise, 

Like  birds,  to  heaven  so  blue. 
But  even  mothers  do  not  know 

Some  things  that  children  do. 

That  night,  the  flowers  untied  themselves 

And  softly  stole  away, 
To  fly  in  sunshine  round  my  dreams 

Until  the  break  of  day. 

Mary  McNeil  Fenollosa 


248 


IF  I  WERE  A  FAIRY 

I  'd  love  to  sit  on  a  clover-top 

And  sway, 
And  swing  and  shake,  till  the  dew  would  drop 
In  spray; 
To  croon  a  song  for  the  bumble-bee 
To  leave  his  golden  honey  with  me, 
And  sway  and  swing,  till  the  wind  would  stop 
To  play. 

I  'd  weave  a  hammock  of  spider-thread 

Loose-hung, 
Where  grasses  nodded  above  my  head 
And  swung. 
And  all  day  long,  while  the  hammock  swayed 
I  'd  twine  and  tangle  the  sun  and  shade, 
Till  the  crickets'  song,  "It  is  time  for  bed!" 
Was  sung. 

Then  wrapped  in  a  wee  gold  sunset  cloud 

I'd  lie, 
While  night  winds  sang  to  the  stars  that  crowd 
The  sky. 
And  all  night  long,  I  would  swing  and  sleep 
While  fireflies  lighted  their  lamps  to  peep  — 
"Oh,  hush!"  they'd  whisper,  if  frogs  sang  loud  — 
"Ohhush-a-by!" 

Chables  Buxton  Going 

249 


FRINGED  GENTIANS 

Near  where  I  live  there  is  a  lake 
As  blue  as  blue  can  be,  winds  make 
It  dance  as  they  go  blowing  by. 
I  think  it  curtseys  to  the  sky. 

It's  just  a  lake  of  lovely  flowers, 
And  my  Mamma  says  they  are  ours; 
But  they  are  not  like  those  we  grow 
To  be  our  very  own,  you  know. 

We  have  a  splendid  garden,  there 
Are  lots  of  flowers  everywhere; 
Roses,  and  pinks,  and  four  o'clocks, 
And  hollyhocks,  and  evening  stocks. 

Mamma  lets  us  pick  them,  but  never 
Must  we  pick  any  gentians  —  ever! 
For  if  we  carried  them  away 
They'd  die  of  homesickness  that  day. 

Amy  Lowell 


THE  SCISSORS-MAN 

As  I  was  busy  with  my  tools 
That  make  my  garden  neat, 

I  heard  a  little  crooked  tune 
Come  drifting  up  the  street. 
250 


It  did  n't  seem  to  have  an  end 
Like  others  that  are  plain; 

You  always  felt  it  going  on 
Till  it  began  again. 

It  came  quite  near:  I  heard  it  call, 
And  dropped  my  tools  and  ran 

To  peer  out  through  the  gate; 
I  thought  it  might  be  Pan. 

But  it  was  just  the  scissors-man 
Who  walked  along  and  played 

Upon  a  little  instrument 
He  told  me  he  had  made. 

Now,  if  you  hope  to  see  a  god 

As  hard  to  find  as  Pan, 
It 's  sad  when  it  turns  out  to  be 

A  plain  old  scissors-man. 

But  when  my  mother  came  to  hear 
The  crooked  tune  he  made, 

She  said  his  instrument  was  like 
Some  pipes  that  Pan  had  played. 

And  I  must  ask  the  scissors-man 

If  he  had  ever  known 
Or  met  a  queer  old  god  who  played 

On  pipes  much  like  his  own. 
251 


He  would  not  tell :  and  when  I  asked 

Who  taught  him  how  to  play, 
He  made  that  crooked  tune  again, 

And  laughed  and  went  away. 

Grace  Hazard  Conkung 


THE  GARDEN  OF  LIFE 


GOD'S  GARDEN 

The  years  are  flowers  and  bloom  within 

Eternity's  wide  garden ; 
The  rose  for  joy,  the  thorn  for  sin, 

The  gardener  God,  to  pardon 
All  wilding  growths,  to  prune,  reclaim, 
And  make  them  rose-like  in  His  name. 


Richard  Burton 


'THE  LORD  GOD  PLANTED  A  GARDEN" 

The  Lord  God  planted  a  garden 
In  the  first  white  days  of  the  world, 

And  He  set  there  an  angel  warden 
In  a  garment  of  light  enfurled. 

So  near  to  the  peace  of  Heaven, 
That  the  hawk  might  nest  with  the  wren, 

For  there  in  the  cool  of  the  even 
God  walked  with  the  first  of  men. 

And  I  dream  that  these  garden-closes 

With  their  shade  and  their  sun-flecked  sod 

And  their  lilies  and  bowers  of  roses, 
Were  laid  by  the  hand  of  God. 

The  kiss  of  the  sun  for  pardon, 
The  song  of  the  birds  for  mirth,  — 

One  is  nearer  God's  heart  in  a  garden 
Than  anywhere  else  on  earth. 

Dorothy  Frances  Gurnet 

THE  LILIES 

Ever  the  garden  has  a  spiritual  word : 
In  the  slow  lapses  of  unnoticed  time 
It  drops  from  heaven,  or  upward  learns  to  climb, 
Breathing  an  earthly  sweetness,  as  a  bird 
Is  in  the  porches  of  the  morning  heard; 
255 


So,  in  the  garden,  flower  to  flower  will  chime, 
And  with  the  music  thought  and  feeling  rhyme, 
And  the  hushed  soul  is  with  new  glory  stirred. 

Beauty  is  silent,  —  through  the  summer  day 
Sleeps  in  her  gold,  —  O  wondrous  sunlit  gold, 

Frosting  the  lilies,  virginal  array! 
Green,  full-leaved  walls  the  fragrant  sculpture  hold, 

Warm,  orient  blooms!  —  how  motionless  are  they  — 
Speechless  —  the  eternal  loveliness  untold! 

George  E.  Woodberry 

BARTER 

Life  has  loveliness  to  sell, 
All  beautiful  and  splendid  things, 
Blue  waves  whitened  on  a  cliff, 
Soaring  fire  that  sways  and  sings, 
And  children's  faces  looking  up 
Holding  wonder  like  a  cup. 

Life  has  loveliness  to  sell, 
Music  like  a  curve  of  gold, 
Scent  of  pine  trees  in  the  rain, 
Eyes  that  love  you,  arms  that  hold, 
And  for  your  spirit's  still  delight, 
Holy  thoughts  that  star  the  night. 
256 


Spend  all  you  have  for  loveliness, 
Buy  it  and  never  count  the  cost; 
For  one  white  singing  hour  of  peace 
Count  many  a  year  of  strife  well  lost, 
And  for  a  breath  of  ecstasy 
Give  all  you  have  been,  or  could  be. 

Sara  Teasdale 

SONNET 

Drop  me  the  seed,  that  I,  even  in  my  brain, 
May  be  its  nourishing  earth.   No  mortal  knows 
From  what  immortal  granary  comes  the  grain, 
Nor  how  the  earth  conspires  to  make  the  rose; 

But  from  the  dust  and  from  the  wetted  mud 
Comes  help,  given  or  taken;  so  with  me 
Deep  in  my  brain  the  essence  of  my  blood 
Shall  give  it  stature  until  Beauty  be. 

It  will  look  down,  even  as  the  burning  flower 
Smiles  upon  June,  long  after  I  am  gone. 
Dust-footed  Time  will  never  tell  its  hour, 
Through  dusty  Time  its  rose  will  draw  men  on, 

Through  dusty  Time  its  beauty  shall  make  plain 
Man,  and,  Without,  a  spirit  scattering  grain. 

John  Masefield 

257 


THE  TILLING 

The  dull  ox,  Sorrow,  treads  my  heart, 

Dragging  the  harrow,  Pain, 

And  turning  the  old  year's  tillage 

Under  the  sod  again. 

So,  well  do  I  know  the  Tiller 

Will  bring  once  more  the  grain; 

For  grief  comes  never  to  the  strong  — 

Nor  dull  despair's  benumbing  wrong  — 

But  from  them  spring  a  hidden  throng 

Of  seeds,  for  new  life  fain. 

So  heavily  do  I  let  the  hoofs 

Trample  the  deeps  of  me; 

For  only  thus  is  spirit 

Brought  to  fecundity. 

But  when  the  ox  is  stabled 

And  the  harrow  set  aside, 

With  calm  I  watch  a  new  world  grow, 

Sweetly  green,  up  out  of  woe, 

And,  glad  of  the  Tiller,  then  I  know 

He  too  is  satisfied. 

Cale  Young  Rice 


258 


SAFE 

Now  shall  your  beauty  never  fade ; 

For  it  was  budding  when  you  passed 
Beyond  this  glare,  into  the  shade 

Of  fairer  gardens  unforecast, 
Where,  by  the  dreaded  Gardener's  spade, 

Beauty,  transplanted  once,  shall  ever  last. 

Now  never  shall  that  glorious  breast 
Wither,  those  deft  hands  lose  their  art, 

Nor  those  glad  shoulders  be  oppressed 
By  failing  breath  or  fluttering  heart, 

Nor,  from  the  cheek  by  dawn  possessed, 
The  subtle  ecstasy  of  hue  depart. 

Forever  shall  you  be  your  best,  — 

Nay,  far  more  luminously  shine 
Than  when  our  comradeship  was  blessed 

By  what  on  earth  seemed  most  divine, 
Before  your  body  passed  to  rest 

With  what  I  then  supposed  this  heart  of  mine. 

Now  shall  your  bud  of  beauty  blow 

Far  lovelier  than  I  knew  before 
When,  such  a  little  time  ago, 

I  looked  upon  your  face,  and  swore 
That  Helen's  never  moved  men  so 

When  her  white,  magic  hands  enkindled  war. 
259 


As  you  sweep  on  from  power  to  power 
Shall  every  earthward  thought  you  think 

Irradiate  my  lonely  hour 

Till  I  shall  taste  the  golden  drink 

Of  Life,  and  see  the  full-blown  flower, 

Whose  opening  bud  was  mine,  beyond  the  brink. 
Robert  Haven  Schauffler 

SORROW  IN  A  GARDEN 

Here  in  this  ancient  garden 

When  Winter  days  had  flown 
I  came,  with  Comrade  Sorrow 

To  dwell  with  her  alone. 

Here  in  this  sweet  seclusion 
Far  from  the  World's  cold  stare 

What  exquisite  communings 
Sorrow  and  I  would  share! 

What  banquets  of  remembrance! 

What  luxury  of  tears! 
With  Sorrow  in  a  garden 

Through  the  rose-scented  years! 

But  one  day  when  she  called  me 

I  did  not  hear  her  voice; 
I  only  heard  the  lilies 

Which  sang  "Rejoice,  rejoice!" 
260 


The  world  was  gold  and  azure 

The  air  was  sweet  with  birds; 
My  garden  laughed  with  rapture 

How  could  I  hear  her  words? 

For  June  was  in  the  garden 

And  June  was  in  my  heart, 
And  since  that  hour  pale  Sorrow 

And  I  have  dwelt  apart. 

But  often  in  the  twilight 

When  birds  and  gardens  sleep 
I  feel  her  presence  with  me 

Her  arms  about  me  creep. 

And  when  the  ghosts  of  Summer 

With  the  dead  roses  talk, 
I  hear  her  softly  sobbing 

Along  the  moonlit  walk. 

I  never  can  forget  her 

So  intimate  were  we! 
But  Sorrow,  in  my  garden 

Abides  no  more  with  me. 

May  Riley  Smith 


2G1 


MOTH-FLOWERS 

The  pale  moth 

Trembles  in  the  white  moonlight; 

Thus  my  heart  trembles  with  love! 

The  rose  petals  fall  — 
The  red  petals  of  my  heart; 
Oh,  the  breath  of  love! 

Cool,  sweet  tears 

Of  honey,  the  jasmine  weeps; 

Burning  fall  the  tears  of  love. 

Oh,  how  bitter 

Is  the  White  Poppy,  Death; 

There  are  no  more  dreams  of  love. 

Jeanne  Robert  Foster 

ALCHEMY 

I  lift  my  heart  as  spring  lifts  up 

A  yellow  daisy  to  the  rain; 
My  heart  will  be  a  lovely  cup 

Altho'  it  holds  but  pain. 

For  I  shall  learn  from  flower  and  leaf 

That  color  every  drop  they  hold, 

To  change  the  lifeless  wine  of  grief 

To  living  gold. 

Sara  Teasdale 
262 


FLOWERS  IN  THE  DARK 

Late  in  the  evening,  when  the  room  had  grown 
Too  hot  and  tiresome  with  its  flaring  light 
And  noisy  voices,  I  stole  out  alone 
Into  the  darkness  of  the  summer  night- 
Down  the  long  garden-walk  I  slowly  went, 
A  little  wind  was  stirring  in  the  trees; 
I  only  saw  the  whitest  of  the  flowers, 
And  I  was  sorry  that  the  earlier  hours 
Of  that  fair  evening  had  been  so  ill  spent, 
Because  I  said,  "I  am  content  with  these 
Dear  friends  of  mine  who  only  speak  to  me 
With  their  delicious  fragrance,  and  who  tell 
To  me  their  gracious  welcome  silently." 

The  leaves  that  touch  my  hand  with  dew  are  wet; 

I  find  the  tall  white  lilies  I  love  well. 

I  linger  as  I  pass  the  mignonette, 

And  what  surprise  could  clearer  be  than  this: 

To  find  my  sweet  rose  waiting  with  a  kiss! 

Sarah  Orne  Jewett 


263 


WELCOME 

There   is   a   hillside   garden   that   their   tender   hands   have 

tended, 
Below  a  house  that  holds  for  me  a  shrine  of  joy  and  light. 
And  there  beneath  a  cloudless  sun  when  June  is  warm  and 

splendid 
I  see  them  coming  home  to  me,  three  girls  in  garments  white. 

Alice  with  lilies  in  her  hands,  and  little  dark  Dolores 
Showing  her  glowing  marigolds;  and  Iris  last  of  all 
Under  the  arbor  by  the  wall  of  purple  morning-glories, 
Bringing  my  crimson  ramblers  back  that  sought  to  scale  the 
wall. 

Alice  with  smiles  along  her  lips;  Dolores  still  and  tender; 
Iris  whose  eyes  can  tell  me  more  than  tongue  shall  ever  say; 
They  offer  to  my  open  arms  their  bodies  soft  and  slender, 
Bringing  the  best  of  summer  here,  they  garlanded  to-day. 

Into  my  study  they  have  swept,  and  brasses  from  Benares, 
Vases  from   Venice  they  have  filled,  and  hung  their  wreaths 

around 
The  portrait  where  their  mother  smiles  like  the  tall  tranquil 

Maries 
That  Perugino  used  to  paint,  with  hair  like  sunlight  crowned. 

264 


"Mother  is  coming  home  to-day."    (The  words  themselves  are 

singing.) 
"How  long  it  is,"  our  litany,  forgotten,  they  repeat, 
Making  their  last  response  to  love,  their  last  oblation  bringing 
Till  at  the  hour  of  evensong,  their  voices  still  more  sweet, 
Tremble  and  sanctify  the  house  where  happy  hearts  shall  meet. 

John  Curtis  Underwood 


THE  CHILD  IN  THE  GARDEN 

When  to  the  garden  of  untroubled  thought 
I  came  of  late,  and  saw  the  open  door, 
And  wished  again  to  enter,  and  explore 

The  sweet,  wild  ways  with  stainless  bloom  inwrought 

And  bowers  of  innocence  with  beauty  fraught, 
It  seemed  some  purer  voice  must  speak  before 
I  dared  to  tread  that  garden  loved  of  yore, 

That  Eden  lost  unknown  and  found  unsought. 

Then  just  within  the  gate  I  saw  a  child,  — 

A  stranger-child,  yet  to  my  heart  most  dear; 
He  held  his  hands  to  me,  and  softly  smiled 
With  eyes  that  knew  no  shade  of  sin  or  fear: 
" Come  in,"  he  said,  "and  play  awhile  with  me; 
I  am  the  little  child  you  used  to  be." 

Henry  van  Dyke 


i<>5 


A  WONDER  GARDEN 

"And  a  little  child  shall  lead  them" 

Into  her  world,  beneath  her  smiling  skies; 
A  little  child  with  wide,  wondering  eyes 
Deep  with  the  mystery  that  in  them  lies. 
Her  soft  hand  plucks  a  stem  asunder, 
And  with  the  dream  that  is  a  part 

Of  Childhood's  heart, 
She  questions: 

"Now  I  want  to  wonder!" 

She  "wants  to  wonder"  how  so  fair  a  thing 

Is  born;  from  what  it  springs,  and  why  it  blooms: 
Whence  comes  its  sweet,  elusive  odor  rare,  — 
The  garnered  fragrance  of  a  hundred  Junes. 
Was  it  all  planned,  —  or  just  some  lovely  blunder? 
Thus  gazing,  with  the  seeking  look  that  lies 

In  Childhood's  eyes, 
She  questions: 
"Now  I  want  to  wonder!" 

Dear  Child,  your  groping  mind  seeks  far  and  true: 
Mankind  and  Nature,  —  all  "want  to  wonder"  too. 

Frederic  A.  Whiting 


m\ 


FROM  A  CAR-WINDOW 

Pines,  and  a  blur  of  lithe  young  grasses; 

Gold  in  a  pool,  from  the  western  glow; 
Spread  of  wings  where  the  last  thrush  passes  — 

And  thoughts  of  you  as  the  sun  dips  low. 

Quiet  lane,  and  an  irised  meadow  .  .  . 

{How  many  summers  have  died  since  then  ? )  .  .  . 
I  wish  you  knew  how  the  deepening  shadow 

Lies  on  the  blue  and  green  again! 

Dusk,  and  the  curve  of  field  and  hollow 

Etched  in  gray  when  a  star  appears: 
Sunset,  .  .  .  twilight,  .  .  .  and  dark  to  follow,  .  .  . 

And  thoughts  of  you  thro'  a  mist  of  tears. 

Ruth  Guthrie  Harding 

SONG  OF  THE  WEARY  TRAVELLER 

I  am  weary.   I  would  rest 
On  the  wide  earth's  swelling  breast, 
Nurtured  by  the  quiet  sod 
Where  the  fragrant  dew  has  trod, 
Soothed  by  all  the  winds  that  pass, 
Hearing  voices  in  the  grass 
Of  the  little  insect  things 
Happier  than  the  mightiest  kings! 
2G7 


I  am  weary.   I  would  sleep 
In  some  quiet  perfumed  deep 
Where  no  human  touch  could  bring 
Tears  to  me  or  anything. 
There  I  would  forget  to  weep 
And  my  silent  cloister  keep,  — 
There  I  would  the  earth  embrace 
Meeting  Beauty  face  to  face. 

I  am  weary.   I  would  go 

Where  the  fields  are  white  with  snow, 

Where  the  violets  are  lain 

Far  from  human  strife  and  pain  — 

Far  from  longing  and  delight, 

Thro'  the  endless  starry  night, 

There  I  would  forget  to  weep, 

And  my  silent  cloister  keep. 

Blanche  Shoemaker  Wagstaff 

COBWEBS 

Who  would  not  praise  thee,  miracle  of  Frost? 
Some  gesture  overnight,  some  breath  benign, 
And  lo!  the  tree's  a  fountain  all  a-shine, 
The  hedge  a  throne  of  unimagined  cost; 
In  wheel  and  fan  along  a  wall  embossed, 
The  spider's  humble  handiwork  shows  fine 

268 


With  jewels  girdling  every  airy  line; 
Though  the  small  mason  in  the  cold  be  lost. 

Web  after  web,  a  morning  snare  of  bliss 
Starring  with  beauty  the  whole  neighbourhood, 
May  well  beget  an  envy  clean  and  good. 
When  man  goes  too  into  the  earth-abyss, 
And  God  in  His  altered  garden  walks,  I  would 
My  secret  woof  might  gleam  so  fair  as  this. 

Louise  Imogen  Guiney 

BLIND 

The  Spring  blew  trumpets  of  color; 
Her  Green  sang  in  my  brain  — 
I  heard  a  blind  man  groping 
"Tap  —  tap"  with  his  cane; 

I  pitied  him  his  blindness; 
But  can  I  boast,  "I  see?" 
Perhaps  there  walks  a  spirit 
Close  by,  who  pities  me,  — 

A  spirit  who  hears  me  tapping 
The  five-sensed  cane  of  mind 
Amid  such  unguessed  glories  — 
That  I  —  am  worse  than  blind! 

Harry  Kemp 

209 


HERB  OF  GRACE 

I  do  not  know  what  sings  in  me  — 
I  only  know  it  sings 
When  pale  the  stars,  and  every  tree 
Is  glad  with  waking  wings. 

I  only  know  the  air  is  sweet 
With  wondrous  flowers  unseen  — 
That  unaccountably  complete 
Is  June's  accustomed  green. 

The  wind  has  magic  in  its  touch; 
Strange  dreams  the  sunsets  give. 
Life  I  have  questioned  overmuch  — 
To-day,  I  live. 

Amelia  Josephine  Burr 

BEFORE  MARY  OF  MAGDALA  CAME 

Now  in  the  place  where  he  was  crucified  there  was  a  garden;  and  in  the  garden 
a  new  sepulchre.  .  .  .  The  first  day  of  the  week  cometh  Mary  Magdalene  early 
.  .  .  unto  the  sepulchre.  .  .  .  And  .  .  .  she  turned  herself  back,  and  saw  Jesus 
Btanding.  .  .  .  Jesus  saith  unto  her,  Mary.  She  turned  herself,  and  saith  unto 
him  .  .  .  Master.    St.  John. 

From  silvering  mid-sea  to  the  Syrian  sand, 
It  was  the  time  of  blossom  in  the  land. 
On  field  and  hill  and  down  the  steep  ravine, 
Ran  foam  and  fire  of  bloom  and  ripple  of  green. 

270 


The  Sepulchre  was  open  wide,  and  thrown 
Among  the  crushed,  hurt  lilies  lay  the  Stone. 
A  light  wind  stirred  the  Garden:  everywhere 
The  smell  of  myrrh  was  out  upon  the  air. 
For  three  days  He  had  traveled  with  the  dead, 
And  now  was  risen  to  go  with  stiller  tread 
The  old  earth  ways  again, 
To  stay  the  heart  and  build  the  hope  of  men. 
He  made  a  luster  in  that  leafy  place, 
His  form  serene,  majestical;  His  face 
Touched  with  a  cryptic  beauty  like  the  sea 
Lit  by  the  moon  when  night  begins  to  be. 

The  cold  gray  east  was  warming  into  rose 
Beyond  the  steep  ravine  where  Kedron  goes. 
Now  suddenly  on  the  morning  faint  with  flame 
Jerusalem  with  all  her  clamors  came  — 
A  snarl  of  noises  from  the  far-off  street, 
Dispute  and  barter  and  the  clack  of  feet. 
A  moment  it  brawled  upward  and  was  gone  — 
Faded,  forgotten  in  the  deep  still  dawn. 
He  passed  across  the  morning:  felt  the  cool, 
Keen,  kindling  air  blown  upward  from  the  pool. 
A  busy  wind  brought  little  tender  smells 
From  barley  fields  and  weeds  by  April  wells. 
Up  in  the  tree-tops  where  the  breezes  ran 
The  old  sweet  noises  in  the  nests  began ; 

271 


And  once  He  paused  to  listen  while  a  bird 
Shouted  the  joy  till  all  the  Garden  heard. 

There  in  the  morning,  on  the  old  worn  ways  — 

New-risen  from  the  sacrament  of  death  — 

He  looked  toward  Olivet  with  tender  gaze: 

Old  things  of  the  heart  came  back  from  other  days  — 

The  happy,  homely  shop  in  Nazareth; 

The  noonday  shadow  of  a  wayside  tree 

That  had  befriended  Him  in  Galilee; 

Sweet  talks  in  Bethany  by  the  chimney  stone, 

And  night-long  lingering  talks  with  John  alone. 

And  then  He  thought  of  all  the  weary  men 

He  would  have  gathered  as  a  mother  hen 

Gathers  her  brood  under  her  wings  at  night. 

And  then  He  saw  the  ages  in  one  flight, 

And  heard  as  a  great  sea 

All  of  the  griefs  that  had  been  and  must  be.  . . . 

As  He  stood  looking  on  the  endless  sky, 
Over  the  Garden  went  a  sobbing  cry. 
He  turned,  and  saw  where  the  tall  almonds  are 
His  Mary  of  Magdala,  wildly  pale, 
Fast-fleeting  down  the  trail, 
And  suddenly  His  face  was  like  a  star! 
He  spoke;  she  knew  —  a  blaze  of  happy  tears; 
Then  "Master!"  .  .  .  and  the  word  rings  down  the  years! 

Edwin  Markham 

272 


CONSCIENCE 

Wisdom  am  I 

When  thou  art  but  a  fool; 
My  part  the  man, 

When  thou  hast  played  the  clod; 
Hast  lost  thy  garden? 

When  the  eve  is  cool, 
Harken!  —  't  is  I  who  walk 

There  with  thy  God! 

Margaret  Steele  Anderson 

ROSA  MYSTICA 

This  rose  so  exquisite, 
So  perfect,  so  complete, 
Beauty  beyond  all  price,  — 
With  the  hour  it  dies. 

God  makes  Him  roses  fast, 
With  such  magnificent  haste, 
Multitudes,  multitudes, 
In  gardens,  fields  and  woods. 

The  roses  tell  His  praise 
Their  little  length  of  days; 
Testify  to  His  name, 
Gold  on  gold,  flame  on  flame. 
273 


They  are  scarce  here,  scarce  blown, 
But  they  arc  gone,  are  flown; 
The  gardener's  broom  must  sweep  them 
And  in  the  darkness  heap  them. 

Drift  of  rose-leaves  upon 
The  garden-bed,  the  lawn: 
The  exquisite  thought  of  God 
Is  scattered,  wasted  abroad. 

What  of  the  soul  of  the  rose? 
It  shall  not  die  with  those; 
It  shall  wake,  shall  live  again 
In  God's  rose-garden. 

It  shall  climb  rose-trellises 
Before  God's  palaces; 
The  Eternal  Rose  shall  cover 
The  House  of  God  all  over. 

She  shall  breathe  out  her  soul 
And  yet  living,  made  whole, 
Shall  offer  her  oblation 
Out  of  her  purest  passion. 

She  shall  know  all  bliss 
Where  God's  garden  is: 
The  rose  drinking  her  fill  is 
Of  joy  with  her  sister  lilies. 

274 


Where  the  Water  of  Life  sweet 
Bathes  her  from  head  to  feet, 
The  River  of  Life  flows  — 
There  is  the  Rose. 

Katharine  Tynan 

THE  MYSTERY 

He  came  and  took  me  by  the  hand 

Up  to  a  red  rose  tree, 
He  kept  His  meaning  to  Himself 

But  gave  a  rose  to  me. 

I  did  not  pray  Him  to  lay  bare 

The  mystery  to  me, 
Enough  the  rose  was  Heaven  to  smell 

And  His  own  face  to  see. 

Ralph  Hodgson 

THE  ROSE 

And  so  must  life  be  many- veined; 
The  loves  that  hurt,  the  fate  that  blent 
My  life  with  myriad  lives  and  ways, 
The  processes  that  probed  and  pained, 
The  pencillings  of  nights  and  days  — 
Cross  currents,  tangling  as  they  went, 
With  oh,  such  conflict  in  my  soul!  — 
275 


How  should  I  know  that  they  were  meant 
Just  to  make  living  sweet  and  whole, 
Just  to  unclose 
God's  perfect  rose? 


Angela  Morgan 


FOR  THESE 


An  acre  of  land  between  the  shore  and  the  hills, 
Upon  a  ledge  that  shows  my  Kingdoms  three, 
The  lovely  visible  earth  and  sky  and  sea, 
Where  what  the  curlew  needs  not,  the  farmer  tills: 

A  house  that  shall  love  me  as  I  love  it, 
Well-hedged,  and  honoured  by  a  few  ash  trees 
That  linnets,  greenfinches,  and  goldfinches 
Shall  often  visit  and  make  love  in  and  flit; 

A  garden  I  need  never  go  beyond, 
Broken  but  neat,  whose  sunflowers  every  one 
Are  fit  to  be  the  sign  of  the  Rising  Sun: 
A  spring,  a  brook's  bend,  or  at  least  a  pond! 

For  these  I  ask  not,  but  neither  too  late 
Nor  yet  too  early,  for  what  men  call  content,  — 
And  also  that  something  may  be  sent 
To  be  contented  with,  I  ask  of  fate. 

Edward  Thomas  (Edward  Eastawat) 
27G 


SAMUEL  GARDNER 

I  who  kept  the  greenhouse, 

Lover  of  trees  and  flowers, 

Oft  in  life  saw  this  umbrageous  elm, 

Measuring  its  generous  branches  with  my  eye, 

And  listened  to  its  rejoicing  leaves 

Lovingly  patting  each  other 

With  sweet  aeolian  whispers. 

And  well  they  might: 

For  the  roots  had  grown  so  wide  and  deep 

That  the  soil  of  the  hill  could  not  withhold 

Aught  of  its  virtue,  enriched  by  rain, 

And  warmed  by  the  sun; 

But  yielded  it  all  to  the  thrifty  roots, 

Through  which  it  was  drawn  and  whirled  to  the  trunk, 

And  thence  to  the  branches,  and  into  the  leaves, 

Wherefrom  the  breeze  took  life  and  sang. 

Now  I,  an  under-tenant  of  the  earth,  can  see 

That  the  branches  of  a  tree 

Spread  no  wider  than  its  roots. 

And  how  shall  the  soul  of  a  man 

Be  larger  than  the  life  he  has  lived? 

Edgar  Lee  Masters 


277 


SEEDS 

What  shall  we  be  like  when 

We  cast  this  earthly  body  and  attain 

To  immortality? 

What  shall  we  be  like  then? 

Ah,  who  shall  say 

What  vast  expansions  shall  be  ours  that  day? 

What  transformations  of  this  house  of  clay, 

To  fit  the  heavenly  mansions  and  the  fight  of  day? 

Ah,  who  shall  say? 

But  this  we  know,  — 

We  drop  a  seed  into  the  ground, 

A  tiny,  shapeless  thing,  shrivelled  and  dry, 

And,  in  the  fulness  of  its  time,  is  seen 

A  form  of  peerless  beauty,  robed  and  crowned 

Beyond  the  pride  of  any  earthly  queen, 

Instinct  with  loveliness,  and  sweet  and  rare, 

The  perfect  emblem  of  its  Maker's  care. 

This  from  a  shrivelled  seed?  — 
—  Then  may  man  hope  indeed! 

For  man  is  but  the  seed  of  what  he  shall  be, 
When,  in  the  fulness  of  his  perfecting, 

278 


He  drops  the  husk  and  cleaves  his  upward  way, 

Through  earth's  retardings  and  the  clinging  clay, 

Into  the  sunshine  of  God's  perfect  day. 

No  fetters  then!  No  bonds  of  time  or  space! 

But  powers  as  ample  as  the  boundless  grace 

That  suffered  man,  and  death,  and  yet,  in  tenderness, 

Set  wide  the  door,  and  passed  Himself  before  — 

As  He  had  promised  —  to  prepare  a  place. 

Yea,  we  may  hope! 

For  we  are  seeds, 

Dropped  into  earth  for  heavenly  blossoming. 

Perchance,  when  comes  the  time  of  harvesting, 

His  loving  care 

May  find  some  use  for  even  a  humble  tare. 

We  know  not  what  we  shall  be  —  only  this  — 
That  we  shall  be  made  like  Him  —  as  He  is. 

John  Oxenham 


"LORD,  I  ASK  A  GARDEN" 

Lord,  I  ask  a  garden  in  a  quiet  spot 
where  there  may  be  a  brook  with  a  good  flow, 
an  humble  little  house  covered  with  bell-flowers 
and  a  wife  and  a  son  who  shall  resemble  Thee. 

279 


I  should  wish  to  live  many  years,  free  from  hates, 
and  make  my  verses,  as  the  rivers 
that  moisten  the  earth,  fresh  and  pure. 
Lord,  give  me  a  path  with  trees  and  birds. 

I  wish  that  you  would  never  take  my  mother, 

for  I  should  wish  to  tend  her  as  a  child 

and  put  her  to  sleep  with  kisses,  when  somewhat  old 

she  may  need  the  sun. 

R.  Arevalo  Martinez 

MY  FLOWER-ROOM 

My  flower-room  is  such  a  little  place, 

Scarce  twenty  feet  by  nine,  yet  in  that  space 

I  have  met  God;  yea,  many  a  radiant  hour 

Have  talked  with  Him,  the  Ail-Embracing  Cause, 

About  His  laws. 

And  he  has  shown  me,  in  each  vine  and  flower, 

Such  miracles  of  power 

That  day  by  day  this  flower-room  of  mine 

Has  come  to  be  a  shrine. 

Fed  by  the  self-same  soil  and  atmosphere, 
Pale,  tender  shoots  appear, 
Rising  to  greet  the  light  in  that  sweet  room. 
One  speeds  to  crimson  bloom, 
One  slowly  creeps  to  unassuming  grace, 
One  climbs,  one  trails, 

280 


One  drinks  the  light  and  moisture, 

One  exhales. 

Up  through  the  earth  together,  stem  by  stem, 

Two  plants  push  swiftly  in  a  floral  race, 

Till  one  sends  forth  a  blossom  like  a  gem, 

And  one  gives  only  fragrance. 

In  a  seed, 

So  small  it  scarce  is  felt  within  the  hand, 

Lie  hidden  such  delights 

Of  scents  and  sights, 

When  by  the  elements  of  Nature  freed, 

As  paradise  must  have  at  its  command. 

From  shapeless  roots  and  ugly  bulbous  things, 

What  gorgeous  beauty  springs! 

Such  infinite  variety  appears, 

A  hundred  artists  in  a  hundred  years 

Could  never  copy  from  a  floral  world 

The  marvels  that  in  leaf  and  bud  lie  curled. 

Nor  could  the  most  colossal  mind  of  man 

Create  one  little  seed  of  plant  or  vine 

Without  assistance  from  the  First  Great  Plan, 

Without  the  aid  divine. 

Who  but  a  God 

Could  draw  from  light  and  moisture,  heat  and  cold, 
And  fashion  in  earth's  mold, 
A  multitude  of  blooms  to  deck  one  sod? 

281 


Who  but  a  God? 

Not  one  man  knows 

Just  why  the  bloom  and  fragrance  of  the  rose, 

Or  how  its  tints  were  blent; 

Or  why  the  white  camellia,  without  scent, 

Up  through  the  same  soil  grows; 

Or  how  the  daisy  and  the  violet 

And  blades  of  grass  first  on  wild  meadows  met. 

Not  one,  not  one  man  knows, 

The  wisest  but  suppose. 

This  flower-room  of  mine 

Has  come  to  be  a  shrine, 

And  I  go  hence 

Each  day  with  larger  faith  and  reverence. 

Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox 


"VESTURED  AND  VEILED  WITH  TWILIGHT" 

Vestured  and  veiled  with  twilight, 

Lulled  in  the  winter's  ease, 
Dim,  and  happy,  and  silent, 

My  garden  dreams  by  its  trees. 

Urn  of  the  sprayless  fountain, 

Glimmering  nymph  and  faun, 
Gleam  through  the  dark-plumed  cedar, 

Fade  on  the  dusky  lawn. 

282 


Here  is  no  stir  of  summer, 

Here  is  no  pulse  of  spring; 
Never  a  bud  to  burgeon, 

Never  a  bird  to  sing. 

Dreams  —  and  the  kingdom  of  quiet! 

Only  the  dead  leaves  lie 
Over  the  fallen  roses 

Under  the  shrouded  sky. 

Folded  and  fenced  with  silence 

Mindless  of  moil  and  mart, 
It  is  twilight  here  in  my  garden, 

And  twilight  here  in  my  heart. 

Rosamund  Marriott  Watson 

THE  FRUIT  GARDEN  PATH 

The  path  runs  straight  between  the  flowering  rows, 
A  moonlit  path  hemmed  in  by  beds  of  bloom, 
Where  phlox  and  marigolds  dispute  for  room 

With  tall,  red  dahlias  and  the  briar  rose. 

'T  is  reckless  prodigality  which  throws 
Into  the  night  these  wafts  of  rich  perfume 
Which  sweep  across  the  garden  like  a  plume. 

Over  the  trees  a  single  bright  star  glows. 
Dear  garden  of  my  childhood,  here  my  years 

Have  run  away  like  little  grains  of  sand; 

283 


The  moments  of  my  life,  its  hopes  and  fears 
Have  all  found  utterance  here,  where  now  I  stand; 

My  eyes  ache  with  the  weight  of  unshed  tears, 
You  are  my  home,  do  you  not  understand? 

Amy  Lowell 

WOOD  SONG 

I  heard  a  woodthrush  in  the  dusk 
Twirl  three  notes  and  make  a  star  — 

My  heart  that  walked  with  bitterness 
Came  back  from  very  far. 

Three  shining  notes  were  all  he  had, 
And  yet  they  made  a  starry  call  — 

I  caught  life  back  against  my  breast 
And  kissed  it,  scars  and  all. 

Sara  Teasdale 

A  PRAYER 

Teach  me,  Father,  how  to  go 
Softly  as  the  grasses  grow; 
Hush  my  soul  to  meet  the  shock 
Of  the  wild  world  as  a  rock; 
But  my  spirit,  propt  with  power, 
Make  as  simple  as  a  flower. 
Let  the  dry  heart  fill  its  cup, 
Like  a  poppy  looking  up; 
2S1 


Let  life  lightly  wear  her  crown, 
Like  a  poppy  looking  down, 
When  its  heart  is  filled  with  dew 
And  its  life  begins  anew. 

Teach  me,  Father,  how  to  be 
Kind  and  patient  as  a  tree. 
Joyfully  the  crickets  croon 
Under  shady  oak  at  noon; 
Beetle,  on  his  mission  bent, 
Tarries  in  that  cooling  tent. 
Let  me,  also,  cheer  a  spot, 
Hidden  field  or  garden  grot  — 
Place  where  passing  souls  can  rest 
On  the  way  and  be  their  best. 

Edwin  Markham 


THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  GARDEN 

"See  this  my  garden, 
Large  and  fair!" 
—  Thus,  to  his  friend, 
The  Philosopher. 

"'T is  not  too  long," 
His  friend  replied, 
With  truth  exact,  — 
285 


"Nor  yet  too  wide. 
Bid  well  compact, 
If  somewhat  cramped 
On  every  side." 

Quick  the  reply  — 
"But  see  how  high!  — 
It  reaches  up 
To  God's  blue  sky!" 

John  Oxenham 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


JEre  Perennius,  Charles  Hanson 

Towne,  139. 
Afternoon  on  a  Hill,  Edna  St. 

Vincent  Millay,  115. 
Alchemy,  Sara  Teasdale,  262. 
Amiel's  Garden,  Gertrude  Hunt- 
ington McGiffert,  211. 
Anxious    Farmer,    The,    Burges 

Johnson,  242. 
April  Morning,  An,  Bliss  Carman, 

23. 
April  Rain,  Conrad  Aiken,  25. 
April  Weather,  Lizette  Woodworth 

Reese,  27. 
Arbutus,  Adelaide  Crapsey,  111. 
As    in    a    Rose-Jar,    Thomas   S. 

Jones,  Jr.,  168. 
Asking  for  Roses,  Robert  Frost,  92. 
At  Isola  Bella,  Jessie  B.  Ritten- 

house,  198. 
Autumn    Rose,    The,    Antoinette 

De  Coursey  Patterson,  52. 
Autumnal,  Richard  Middleton,  186. 
Awakening,  The,  Angela  Morgan, 

149. 

Baby  Seed  Song,  E.  Nesbit,  234. 

Baby's  Valentine,  Laura  E.  Rich- 
ards, 232. 

Ballade  of  the  Dreamland  Rose, 
Brian  Hooker,  181. 

Barter,  Sara  Teasdale,  256. 

Before  Mary  of  Magdala  came, 
Edwin  Markham,  270. 

Beyond,  Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr.,  36. 


Birth  of  the  Flowers,  The,  Mary 

McNeil  Fenollosa,  18. 
Blind,  Harry  Kemp,  269. 
Blooming  of  the  Rose,  The,  Anna 

Hempstead  Branch,  179. 
Blossomy   Barrow,   The,    T.   A. 

Daly,  40. 
Boulders,  Charles  Wharton  Stork, 

114. 
Breath  of  Mint,  A,  Grace  Hazard 

Conkling,  217. 
But  we  did  walk  in  Eden,  Jose- 
phine Preston  Peabody,  125. 
Butterfly,  The,  Edwin  Markham, 

76. 

Cactus,  The,  Laurence  Hope,  195. 
Cardinal-Bird,  The,  Arthur  Guit- 

erman,  66. 
Champa  Flower,  The,  Rabindra- 

nath  Tagore,  200. 
Charm:  To  be   said  in  the  Sun, 

Josephine  Preston  Peabody,  11. 
Child  in  the  Garden,  The,  Henry 

van  Dyke,  265. 
Choice,   The,   Katharine   Tynan, 

223. 
Cloister  Garden  at  Certosa,  The, 

Richard  Burton,  208. 
Cloud  and  Flower,  Agnes  Lee,  124. 
Clover,  John  B.  Tabb,  105. 
Cobwebs,  Louise  Imogen  Guiney, 

268. 
Colonial    Garden,  A,  James   B. 

Kenyon,  86. 


S»K!> 


Color  Notes,  Charles  Wharton 
Stork,  50. 

Columbines,  Arthur  Guiterman, 
39. 

Como  in  April,  Robert  Underwood 
Johnson,  207. 

Conscience,  Margaret  Steele  An- 
derson, 273. 

Cricket  in  the  Path,  The,  Amelia 
Josephine  Burr,  73. 

Crocus  Flame,  The,  Clinton  Scol- 
lard,  28. 

Da  Thief,  T.  A.  Daly,  143. 
Daffodils,  Ruth  Guthrie  Harding, 

28. 
Daisies,  Frank  Dempster  Sherman, 

241. 
Daisy,  To  a,  Alice  Meynell,  109. 
Dandelion,  The,  Vachel  Lindsay, 

107. 
Dawn  in  my  Garden,  Marguerite 

Wilkinson,  221. 
Deserted  Garden,  The,  Pai  Ta- 

Shun,  204. 
Dews,  The,  John  B.  Tabb,  9. 
Dials,  The,  Arthur  Wallace  Peach, 

12. 
"Draw  closer,  O  ye  trees,"  Lloyd 

Mifflin,  159. 
Dream,  A,  Antoinette  De  Coursey 

Patterson,  129. 
Dusty    Hour-Glass,    The,    Amy 

Lowell,  176. 

Early  Gods,  The,    Witter  Bynner, 

30. 
Earth,  John  Hall  Wheelock,  2. 
Eden-Hunger,    William   Watson, 

212. 
Egyptian  Garden,  In  an,  Clinton 

Scollard,  201. 


End  of  Summer,  The,  Edna  St. 

Vincent  Millay,  49. 
Evening  in  Old  Japan,  Antoinette 

De  Coursey  Patterson,  202. 
Ever  the  Same,  Josephine  Preston 

Peabody,  140. 
Exile's  Garden,  An,  Sophie  Jew- 

ett,  207. 

Faithless  Flowers,  The,  Margaret 

Widdemer,  245. 
Family  Trees,  Douglas  Malloch, 

156. 
Fireflies,   Antoinette   De   Coursey 

Patterson,  72. 
Flower-School,    The,    Rabindra- 

nath  Tagore,  246. 
Flowerphone,  The,  Abbie  Farwell 

Brown,  244. 
Flowers  in  the  Dark,  Sarah  Orne 

Jewett,  263. 
Flowers    of    June,    The,    James 

Terry  White,  183. 
For  These,  Edward  Thomas,  276. 
Fountain,  The,  Harry  Kemp,  14. 
Fountain,    The,   Sara    Teasdale, 

199. 
Four  O'Clocks,  Julia  C.  R.  Dorr, 

91. 
Fringed  Gentians,  Amy  Lowell, 

250. 
From  a  Car- Window,  Ruth  Guth- 
rie Harding,  267. 
"Frost     to-night,"      Edith     M. 

Thomas,  54. 
Fruit  Garden   Path,  The,  Amy 

Lowell,  283. 
Furrow,  The,  Padraic  Colum,  3. 

Garden,  The,  Gertrude  Hunting- 
ton McGiffert,  80. 
Garden,  The,  Alice  Meynell,  123. 


290 


Garden   at   Bemerton,  The,  Li- 
zette  Woodworth  Reese,  212. 

Garden     Friend,     A,     Catherine 
Markham,  152. 

Garden  in  August,  The,  Gertrude 
Huntington  McGiffert,  46. 

Garden    in   Venice,    A,    Dorothy 
Frances  Gurney,  209. 

Garden   of   Dreams,   The,   Bliss 
Carman,  169. 

Garden  of  Mnemosyne,  The,  Ros- 
amund Marriott  Watson,  181. 

Garden-Piece,  A,  Edmund  Gosse, 
126. 

Garden  Prayer,  A,  Thomas  Walsh, 
194. 

"  Go  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time," 
Alfred  Noyes,  35. 

God's  Garden,   Richard  Burton, 
254. 

Golden  Bowl,  The,  Mary  McMil- 
lan, 51. 

Golden-Rod,  The,  Margaret  De- 
land,  116. 

Goldfinch,  The,  Odell  Shepard,  63. 

Grace  for  Gardens,  Louise  Dris- 
coll,  226. 

"Grandmother's  gathering  bone- 
set,"  Edith  M.  Thomas,  216. 

Green  o'  the  Spring,  The,  Denis 
A.  McCarthy,  22. 

Haunted  Garden,  A,  Louis  Unter- 

meyer,  174. 
Heart's  Garden,  Norreys  Jephson 

O'Conor,  133. 
Her   Garden,  Eldrcdge   Denison, 

189. 
Her  Garden,  Louis  Dodge,  139. 
Herb  of  Grace,  Amelia  Josephine 

Burr,  270. 
Homesick,  Julia  C.  R.  Dorr,  170. 


"How  many  flowers  are  gently 
met,"  George  Sterling,  127. 

Hummingbird,  The,  Hermann 
Hagedorn,  61. 

"I  meant  to  do  my  work  to-day," 
Richard  Le  Gallienne,  60. 

Idealists,  Alfred  Kreymborg,  158. 

If  I  could  dig  like  a  Rabbit,  Rose 
Strong  Hubbell,  239. 

If  I  were  a  Fairy,  Charles  Buxton 
Going,  249. 

In  a  Garden,  Livingston  L.  Biddle, 
131. 

In  a  Garden,  Horace  Holley,  7. 

In  a  Garden  of  Granada,  Thomas 
Walsh,  210. 

In  an  Egyptian  Garden,  Clinton 
Scollard,  201. 

In  an  Old  Garden,  Madison 
Cawein,  169. 

In  an  Oxford  Garden,  Arthur  Up- 
son, 213. 

In  Memory's  Garden,  Thomas 
Walsh,  183. 

In  my  Mother's  Garden,  Mar- 
garet Widdemer,  87. 

In  the  Garden,  Pai  Ta-Shun,  204. 

In  the  Garden-Close  at  Mezra, 
Clinton  Scollard,  195. 

In  the  Womb,  A.  E.,  4. 

Indian  Summer,  Sara  Teasdale, 
53. 

Iris  Flowers,  Mary  McNeil  Fen- 
ollosa,  247. 

"It  was  June  in  the  garden," 
Emile  Verhaeren,  136. 

Jewel- Weed,  Florence  Earle  Coates, 

111. 
Joe-Pyeweed,    Louis  Untermeyer, 

108. 


291 


Joy  of  the  Springtime,  The,  Saro- 

jini  Naidu,  20. 
Joys  of  a  Summer  Morning,  The, 

Henry  A.  Wise  Wood,  101. 
July  Garden,  The,  Robert  Ernest 

Vernede,  43. 
July  Midnight,  Amy  Lowell,  72. 
June,  Douglas  Malloch,  36. 
June  Rapture,  Angela  Morgan,  37. 

Kinfolk,  Kate  Whiting  Patch,  65. 

Lady  of  the  Snows,  A,  Harriet 
Monroe,  153. 

Larkspur,  James  Oppenheim,  42. 

Late  Walk,  A,  Robert  Frost,  50. 

Lavender,  W.  W.  Blair  Fish,  219. 

Lilies,  The,  George  E.  Woodberry, 
255. 

Little  Ghost,  The,  Edna  St.  Vin- 
cent Millay,  190. 

Little  Girl's  Songs,  A,  Hilda  Conk- 
ling,  236. 

Little  God,  The,  Katharine  How- 
ard, 240. 

"Lord,  I  ask  a  Garden,"  R.  Are- 
valo  Martinez,  279. 

Love  planted  a  Rose,  Katharine 
Lee  Bates,  123. 

"Loveliest  of  trees,"  A.  E.  Hous- 
man,  155. 

Magnolia,  The,  Jose  Santos  Cho- 
cano,  34. 

May  is  building  her  House,  Rich- 
ard Le  Gallienne,  33. 

Message,  The,  Helen  Hay  Whit- 
ney, 141. 

Message,  The,  George  Edward 
Woodberry,  120. 

Messenger,  The,  James  Stephens, 
71. 


"  Mid-summer  blooms  within  our 

quiet     garden-ways,"     Emile 

Verhaeren,  44. 
Midsummer  Garden,  A,  Clinton 

Scollard,  172. 
Miracle,  L.  H.  Bailey,  148. 
Mocking-Bird,  A,  Witter  Bynner, 

65. 
Mocking-Bird,    The,    Frank    L. 

Stanton,  69. 
Morning-Glory,     The,     Florence 

Earle  Coates,  40. 
Moth-Flowers,     Jeanne      Robert 

Foster,  262. 
My  Flower-Room,  Ella  Wheeler 

Wilcox,  280. 
"My  soul  is  like  a  garden-close," 

Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr.,  128. 
Mystery,  Ralph  Hodgson,  275. 

New  Sundial,  To  &,Violet  Fane,  13. 

Night-Moth,  The,  Marion  Couth- 
ouy  Smith,  75. 

Nightingales,  Grace  Hazard  Conk- 
ling,  63. 

November  Night,  Adeline  Crap- 
sey,  55. 

"Oh,  tell    me   how   my  garden 

grows,"  Mildred  Howells,  188. 
Old  Brocade,  The,  M.  G.  Brere- 

ton,  93. 
Old  Gardens,  Arthur  Upson,  179. 
Old  Homes,  Madison  Cawein,  81. 
Old  Mothers,  Charles  Ross,  95. 
Old-fashioned  Garden,  The,  John 

Russell  Hayes,  83. 
Order,  Paul  Scott  Mowrer,  75. 
Over    the   Garden   Wall,   Emily 

Selinger,  243. 
Oxford  Garden,   In    an,   Arthur 

Upson,  213. 


292 


Pasture,  The,  Robert  Frost,  104. 
Path  that  leads  to  Nowhere,  The, 

Corinne  Roosevelt  Robinson,  117. 
Philosopher's  Garden,  The,  John 

Oxenham,  285. 
Planting,  Robert  Livingston,  230. 
Poplars,  The,  Theodosia  Garrison, 

164. 
Poppies,  John  Russell  Hayes,  45. 
Prayer,  John  Hall  Wheelock,  130. 
Prayer,  A,  Edwin  Markham,  284. 
Primavera,   George   Cabot  Lodge, 

21. 
Progress,  Charlotte  Becker,  125. 
Proud    Vegetables,    The,    Mary 

McNeil  Fenollosa,  221. 
Puritan  Lady's  Garden,  A,  Sarah 

N.  Cleghorn,  82. 
Putting  in  the  Seed,  Robert  Frost, 

5. 

Rain,  The,  William  H.  Davies,  9. 

Rain  in  the  Night,  Amelia  Jo- 
sephine Burr,  235. 

Reflections,  Amy  Lowell,  203. 

Rest  at  Noon,  Hermann  Hage- 
dorn,  74. 

Results  and  Roses,  Edgar  A. 
Guest,  145. 

Road   to   the   Pool,   The,   Grace 

■  Hazard  Conkling,  99. 

Roman  Garden,  A,  Florence  Wil- 
kinson Evans,  205. 

Rosa  Mystica,  Katharine  Tynan, 
273. 

Rose,  The,  Grace  Hazard  Conk- 
ling, 130. 

Rose,  The,  Angela  Morgan,  275. 

Rose-Geranium,  Clement  Wood, 
90. 

Rose  Lover,  A,  Frederic  A.  Whit- 
ing, 134. 


Roses,  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson, 
138. 

Roses  in  the  Subway,  Dana  Bur- 
net, 191. 

Safe,  Robert  Haven  Schauffler,  259. 

Samuel  Gardner,  Edgar  Lee  Mas- 
ters, 277. 

Scissors- Man,  The,  Grace  Hazard 
Conkling,  250. 

Secret,  The,  Arthur  Wallace 
Peach,  77. 

Seeds,  John  Oxenham,  278. 

Selection  from  "  Under  the  Trees," 
Anna  Hempstead  Branch,  151. 

Seller  of  Herbs,  A,  Lizette  Wood- 
worth  Reese,  218. 

Serenade,  Marjorie  L.  C.  Pick- 
thall,  184. 

Shade,  Theodosia  Garrison,  150. 

Shower,  A,  Rowland  Thirlmere,  8. 

Snow-Gardens,  The,  Zoe  Akins, 
55. 

Soft  Day,  A,  W.  M.  Letts,  110. 

Song  for  Winter,  A,  Mrs.  Schuy- 
ler Van  Rensselaer,  57. 

Song  from  "April,"  Irene  Ruther- 
ford McLeod,  98. 

Song  in  a  Garden,  A,  Theodosia 
Garrison,  135. 

Song  of  Fairies,  A,  Elizabeth 
Kirby,  131. 

Song  of  the  Weary  Traveller, 
Blanche  Shoemaker  Wagstaff, 
267. 

Song  of  Wandering  Aengus,  The, 
W.  B.  Yeats,  177. 

Song  to  Belinda,  A,  Theodosia 
Garrison,  132. 

Sonnet:  "Drop  me  the  seed,  that 
I,  even  in  my  brain,"  John 
Masefield,  257. 


293 


Sonnet:  "  It  may  be  so;  but  let  the 
unknown  be,"  John  Masefield, 
10. 

Sonnet:  "The  sweet  caresses  that 
I  gave  to  you,"  Elsa  Barker, 
135. 

Sorrow  in  a  Garden,  May  Riley 
Smith,  260. 

South  Wind,  Siegfried  Sassoon, 
102. 

Spirit  of  the  Birch,  The,  Arthur 
Ketchum,  156. 

Spring,  John  Gould  Fletcher,  20. 

Spring,  Francis  Ledwidge,  26. 

Spring  Beauties,  The,  Helen  Gray 
Cone,  68. 

Spring  Patchwork,  Abbie  Farwell 
Brown,  231. 

Spring  Planting,  Helen  Hay  Whit- 
ney, 239. 

Spring  Song,  Hilda  Conkling,  236. 

Spring  Song,  William  Griffith,  62. 

Stairways  and  Gardens,  Ella 
Wheeler  Wilcox,  94. 

Sun,  Cardinal,  and  Corn  Flowers, 
Hannah  Parker  Kimball,  48. 

Sunflowers,  Clinton  Scollard,  48. 

Sweetheart- Lady,  Frank  L.  Stan- 
ton, 133. 

Sweetwilliam,  To  the,  Norman 
Gale,  88. 

Tell-Tale,  Oliver  Herford,  142. 

"The  Lord  God  planted  a  gar- 
den," Dorothy  Frances  Gurney, 
255. 

"There  is  strength  in  the  soil," 
Arthur  Stringer,  4. 

Thief,  Da,  T.  A.  Daly,  143. 

Thistle,  The,  Miles  M.  Dawson, 
104. 

Thoughts    fer    the     Discuraged 


Fanner,  James  Whitcomb  Riley, 

225. 
Three  Cherry  Trees,  The,  Walter 

dc  la  Mare,  178. 
Tilling,   The,   Cale   Young  Rice, 

258. 
Time   of   Roses,    The,    Sarojini 

Naidu,  122. 
To  a  Daisy,  Alice  Meynell,  109. 
To  a  New  Sundial,  Violet  Fane, 

13. 
To  a  Weed,  Gertrude  Hall,  102. 
To    the    Sweetwilliam,    Norman 

Gale,  88. 
Tree,  The,  Evelyn  Underhill,  153. 
Trees,  Bliss  Carman,  160. 
Trees,  Joyce  Kilmer,  165. 
Trees,    The,    Samuel    Valentine 

Cole,  162. 
Tulip  Garden,  A,  Amy  Lowell,  30. 
Tulips,  Arthur  Guiterman,  31. 
Two  Roses,  William  Lindsey,  138. 

"Under  the  Trees,"  Selection 
from,  Anna  Hempstead  Branch, 
151. 

Up  a  Hill  and  a  Hill,  Fannie 
Stearns  Davis,  100. 

Velvets,  Hilda  Conkling,  237. 

"Vestured  and  veiled  with  twi- 
light," Rosamund  Marriott  Wat- 
son, 282. 

Wall,  The,  Abbie  Farwell  Brown, 
112. 

Ways  of  Time,  The,  William  H. 
Davies,  172. 

Weed,  To  a,  Gertrude  Hall,  102. 

Welcome,  John  Curtis  Under- 
wood, 264. 

Welcome,  The,  Arthur  Powell,  19. 


294 


"What  heart  but  fears  a  fra- 
grance?" Martha  Gilbert  Dick- 
inson Bianchi,  185. 

When  Swallows  Build,  Catherine 
Parmenter,  238. 

"Where  love  is  life,"  Duncan 
Campbell  Scott,  121. 

While  April  Rain  went  by,  Shae- 
mas  O  Sheel,  25. 

Whisper  of  Earth,  The,  Edward 
J.  O'Brien,  6. 

White  Iris,  A,  Pauline  B.  Barring- 
ton,  32. 

White  Peacock,  The,  William 
Sharp,  196. 

White  Rose,  The,  Charles  Hanson 
Toume,  173. 

Wild  Gardens,  Ada  Foster  Mur- 
ray, 106. 


Wild  Rose,  The,  Charles  Buxton 

Going,  99. 
Witchery,  Frank  Dempster  Sher- 
man, 68. 
With    a    Rose,    to    Brunhilde, 

Vachel  Lindsay,  127. 
"With    memories    and    odors," 

John  Hall  Wheelock,  24. 
"Within    the    garden    there    is 

healthfulness,"  Emile   Verhae- 

ren,  6. 
Wonder  Garden,  A,  Frederic  A. 

Whiting,  266. 
Wood  Song,  Sara  Teasdale,  284. 

Years    Afterward,    Nancy   Byrd 

Turner,  186. 
Yellow  Warblers,  Katharine  Lee 

Bates,  67. 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


A.  E.,  4. 

Aiken,  Conrad,  25. 
Akins,  Zoe,  55. 

Anderson,  Margaret  Steele, 
273. 

Bailey,  L.  H.,  148. 

Barker,  Elba,  135. 

Barrington,  Pauline  B.,  32. 

Bates,  Katharine  Lee,  67, 
123. 

Becker,  Charlotte,  125. 

Bianchi,  Martha  Gilbert  Dick- 
inson, 185. 

Biddle,  Livingston  L.,  131. 

Branch,  Anna  Hempstead,  151, 
179. 

Brereton,  M.  C,  93. 

Brown,  Abbie  Farwell,  112, 
231,  244. 

Burnet,  Dana,  191. 

Burr,  Amelia  Josephine,  73, 
235,  270. 

Burton,  Richard,  208,  254. 

Bynner,  Witter,  30,  65. 

Carman,  Bliss,  23,  160,  169. 
Cawein,  Madison,  81,  169. 
Chocano,  Jose  Santos,  34. 
Cleghorn,  Sarah  N.,  82. 
Coates,  Florence  Earle,  40, 

111. 
Cole,  Samuel  Valentine,  162. 
Colum,  Padraic,  3. 
Cone,  Helen  Gray,  68. 


Conkling,  Grace  Hazard,  63, 

99,  130,  217,  250. 
Conkling,  Hilda,  236,  237. 
Crapsey,  Adelaide,  55,  110. 

Daly,  T.  A.,  40,  143. 
Davies,  William  H.,  9,  172. 
Davis,  Fannie  Stearns,  100. 
Dawson,  Miles  M.,  104. 
De  la  Mare,  Walter,  178. 
Deland,  Margaret,  116. 
Denison,  Eldredge,  189. 
Dodge  Louis,  139. 
Dorr,  Julia  C.  R.,  91,  170. 
Driscoll,  Louise,  226. 

E.,  A.,  4. 

Eastaway,  Edward,  276. 
Evans,    Florence   Wilkinson, 
205. 

Fane,  Violet,  13. 

Fenollosa,  Mary  McNeil,  18, 

221,  247. 
Fish,  W.  W.  Blair,  219. 
Fletcher,  John  Gould,  20. 
Foster,  Jeanne  Robert,  262. 
Frost,  Robert,  5,  50,  92,  104. 

Gale,  Norman,  88. 

Garrison,  Theodosia,  132,  135, 

150,  164. 
Gibson,  Wilfrid  Wilson,  138. 
Going,  Charles  Buxton,  99, 249 
Gosse,  Edmund,  126. 


299 


Griffith,  William,  62. 
Guest,  Edgar  A.,  145. 
Guiney,  Louise  Imogen,  268. 
Guiterman,  Arthur,  31,  39,  66. 
Gurney,     Dorothy     Frances, 
209,  255. 

Hagedorn,  Hermann,  61,  74. 
Hall,  Gertrude,  102. 
Harding,    Ruth   Guthrie,   28, 

267. 
Hayes,  John  Russell,  45,  83. 
Herford,  Oliver,  142. 
Hodgson,  Ralph,  275. 
Holley,  Horace,  7. 
Hooker,  Brian,  181. 
Hope,  Laurence,  195. 
Housman,  A.  E.,  155. 
Howard,  Katharine,  240. 
Howells,  Mildred,  188. 
Hubbell,  Rose  Strong,  239. 

Jewett,  Sarah  Orne,  263. 
Jewett,  Sophie,  207. 
Johnson,  Burges,  242. 
Johnson,  Robert  Underwood, 

207. 
Jones,  Thomas  S.,  Jr.,  36,  128, 

168. 

Kemp,  Harry,  14,  269. 
Kenyon,  James  B.,  86. 
Ketchum,  Arthur,  156. 
Kilmer,  Joyce,  165. 
Kimball,  Hannah  Parker,  48. 
Kirby,  Elizabeth,  131. 
Kreymborg,  Alfred,  158. 

Ledwidge,  Francis,  26. 
Lee,  Agnes,  124. 
Le  Gallienne,  Richard,  33,  60. 
Letts,  W.  M.,  110. 


Lindsay,  Vachel,  107,  127. 
Lindsey,  William,  138. 
Livingston,  Robert,  230. 
Lodge,  George  Cabot,  21. 
Lowell,  Amy,  30,  72,  176,  203, 
250,  283. 

McCarthy,  Denis  A.,  22. 

McGiffert,  Gertrude  Hunt- 
ington, 46,  80,  211. 

McLeod,  Irene  Rutherford,  98. 

McMillan,  Mary,  51. 

Malloch,  Douglas,  36,  156. 

Markham,  Catherine,  152. 

Markham,  Edwin,  76,  270,  284. 

Martinez,  R.  Arevalo,  279. 

Masefield,  John,  10,  257. 

Masters,  Edgar  Lee,  277. 

Meynell,  Alice,  109,  123. 

Middleton,  Richard,  186. 

Mifflin,  Lloyd,  159. 

Millay,  Edna  St.  Vincent,  49, 
115,  190. 

Monroe,  Harriet,  153. 

Morgan,  Angela,  37,  149,  275. 

Mowrer,  Paul  Scott,  75. 

Murray,  Ada  Foster,  106. 

Naidu,  Sarojini,  20,  122. 
Nesbit,  E.,  234. 
Noyes,  Alfred,  35. 

O'Brien,  Edward  J.,  6. 

O'CONOR,       NORREYS      JEPHSON, 

133. 

Oppenheim,  James,  42. 
O  Sheel,  Shaemas,  25. 
Oxenham,  John,  278,  285. 

Pai  Ta-Shun,  204. 
Parmenter,  Catherine,  238. 
Patch,  Kate  Whiting,  65. 


300 


Patterson,  Antoinette  De 
Coursey,  52,  72,  129,  202. 

Peabody,  Josephine  Preston, 
11,  125,  140. 

Peach,  Arthur  Wallace,  12, 77. 

Pickthall,  Marjorie  L.  C,  184. 

Powell,  Arthur,  19. 

Reese,  Lizette  Wood  worth,  27, 

212,  218. 
Rice,  Cale  Young,  258. 
Rice,  John  Pierrepont,  34. 
Richards,  Laura  E.,  232. 
Riley,  James  Whitcomb,  225. 
rlttenhouse,  jessie  b.,  198. 
Robinson,  Corinne  Roosevelt, 

117. 
Ross,  Charles,  95. 
Russell,  George  William,  4. 

Sassoon,  Siegfried,  102. 
Schauffler,Robert  Haven,  259. 
Scollard,  Clinton,  28,  48,  172, 

195,  201. 
Scott,  Duncan  Campbell,  121. 
Selinger,  Emily,  243. 
Sharp,  William,  196. 
Shepard,  Odell,  63. 
Sherman,  Frank  Dempster,  68, 

241. 
Smith,  Marion  Couthouy,  75. 
Smith,  May  Riley,  260. 
Stanton,  Frank  L.,  69,  133. 
Stephens,  James,  71. 
Sterling,  George,  127. 
Stork,  Charles  Wharton,  50, 

114. 
Stringer,  Arthur,  4. 

Tabb,  John  B.,  9,  105. 
Taoore,     Rabindranath,    200, 
246. 


Teasdale,  Sara,  53,  199,  256, 

262,  284. 
Thirlmere,  Rowland,  8. 
Thomas,  Edith  M.,  54,  216. 
Thomas,  Edward,  276. 
Towne,  Charles  Hanson,  139, 

173. 
Turner,  Nancy  Byrd,  186. 
Tynan,  Katharine,  223,  273. 

Underhill,  Evelyn,  153. 
Underwood,  John  Curtis,  264. 
Untermeyer,  Louis,  108,  174. 
Upson,  Arthur,  179,  213. 

Van  Dyke,  Henry,  265. 
Van  Rensselaer,  Mrs.  Schuy- 
ler, 57. 
Verhaeren,  Emile,  6,  44,  136. 
Vernede,  Robert  Ernest,  43. 

Wagstaff,  Blanche  Shoe- 
maker, 267. 

Walsh,  Thomas,  183,  194,  210. 

Watson,  Rosamund  Marriott, 
181,  282. 

Watson,  William,  212. 

Wheelock,  John  Hall,  2,  24, 
130. 

White,  James  Terry,  183. 

Whiting,  Frederic  A.,  134,  266. 

Whitney,  Helen  Hay,  141,  239. 

Widdemer,  Margaret,  87,  245. 

Wilcox,  Ella  Wheeler,  94, 
280. 

Wilkinson,  Marguerite,  221. 

Wood,  Clement,  90. 

Wood,  Henry  A.  Wise,  101. 

Woodberry,  George  Edward, 
120,  255. 

Yeats,  W.  B.,  177. 


V 


(Cbr  HiUcrfliDe  prced 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   S   .   A 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


•C  13  194S 


-  3  *6l 


REC'D  LD-URl! 


URL 


it  IT* 

MAR  5    1973 


3  m 


Form  L-9 

20m  -12,  '36(3388) 


I  Art.  I 

BR 


16  793  304  4 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  713  555    1 


I 


